SAHS
by Sydney Andrews
Summary: Sydney Andrews’ Halloween Special. Halloween comes early with this terrifically terrifying fiction, featuring a full roster of original and classic characters. Thrills and Chills, Spanks and Spooks! I will post in 24 parts, updating once a day for 4 weeks
1. AN

_**Author's note: For those of you who are familiar with my writing, this story is meant to take place just before the Undiscovered Country. You might notice some small inconsistencies between things that happen in this fiction and things that happen in the UC so... mea culpa! Please have patience with me. If possible, while reading this story, forget the plot that is to follow. I'd like this fiction to stand on its own; I think it can and it should; I'm very proud of it.**_

_**Costume design and 'advertisements' for this story can be found at The Looking Glass forum: tlgf(dot)suddenlaunch3(dot)com, on the WIP board. Join us!**_


	2. PROLOGUE

* * *

_**Prologue**_

_circa_ 2020, virtual calendar

* * *

The boy called her_ Aurora-Norn, _and he fed her pickled ram's testicles for supper, and live fish whenever she wanted. The gruesome stranger would have none of the dead ones; angrily, haughtily, she huffed in dissatisfaction and threw them back. It was unusual behavior for a stowaway – when one is riding along with the rats, one is not in a position to be baking demands. But this woman – this _thing_ – was different. This one had _real_ magic.

And so tonight, as his father's great brigantine rocked precariously in the North Atlantic gales, Jörm ripped off the end of his liver sausage and tossed it into the bilge.

"Yum-yum, for you, _Aurora_-_Norn,"_ he called down in his native Icelandic. He wondered if she understood what the suffix – _Norn_- meant in his language. Would she be offended by his calling her a Witch? It was presumptuous. After all, he wasn't sure she was a Witch. Perhaps she was a Fairy (a very smelly Fairy, but who was he to judge how a Fairy should smell?). Jörm wished he could ask her. But the Witch did not speak, except in chants, in wails, and she only said one thing – the word he had assumed must be her name. Aurora. _Aurora, Aurora!_

He was convinced it was Aurora who was causing the storm this night. The winds blew with her screeching, and the waves pounded the hull when she laughed. She did it deliberately when he was alone above decks, perhaps hoping he would be thrown overboard. Evil thing. Again and again she blasted the boat with her fury until apparently it became too much, because as Jörm held on tight, he heard stumbling in the knee-deep water below, then a body colliding with the hull.

The wretched thing called out in pain, hissing and screaming. Jörm kicked the heel of his boot against the deck. "That's your own fault, you know," he hollered. The strange woman didn't answer, except to scurry back into the corner behind the pumps, away from the beam of his flashlight. All he could see on the opaque surface were carcasses of uneaten fish, untouched except for the eyes. She always removed the eyes.

The stench was unbearable, even for a fishing boat, so Jörm slammed the hatch shut and locked it. His father came up from his quarters shortly afterward, having been jolted awake by the sudden knock.

"You should be on a line," he said, taking the helm. "These northwest winds come out of nowhere - have you no sense?"

"It's _her_, I told you."

"And I told you there is nobody down there. You're imagining things."

"If you'd just _look-_"

"I've looked enough!" he snapped. "And the crew has had it with your nonsense! Now go to bed before you're thrown overboard. The sea loves to eat useless little boys like you."

"I'm fifteen." Actually, it was his birthday, but there was no use reminding anybody of it now.

"You're a damn fool."

The Witch sniggered from down below.

Stomping his feet against the floorboards, Jörm tightened his oilskins and found a harness. Quickly and with skill, he lashed himself to the foremast with a prussick knot.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going aloft. One of the topsails has come unfurled. It'll tear."

"It's too windy to go up there."

"I'm not scared. And I'm not _useless_, father." The rain stung his cheeks, and in a moment he was up on the ratline, climbing the eighty-foot mast to the fighting top, attaching his harness to the rigging as he went. His father roared for him to get down, but by this time Jörm was too high to hear, or for the captain to follow.

Jörm had many years' experience and was quick on the lines, as long as he didn't look down. But with every step up it got colder, and the frozen rope was slippery. By the time he'd made it through the lubber's hole, he was shivering and afraid. Still, he swung around and continued to ascend until he'd reached the untied sail, flapping furiously in the wind. The topmast footrope was only a small stretch away.

Down below, Loki continued to bellow his son's name, though he knew it was useless. The boy had a mind of his own, full of heroic emotions and romantic ideas. It came from reading too many books, from being too curious about the world for his own good - this nonsense about witches was case and point. Everyone knew there was no such thing at a witch. But then again, lately his son's overactive imagination had been given some encouragement.

The old man marched to the bilge's hatch and pulled up the rotting wood. "I've had it with you!" he spat. "If any harm comes to him, I'll give you to the agent. Can you understand me, you_ pest?_ Apparently, you're worth a pretty penny to a very powerful man, though I can't imagine why a sack of meat like you is so valuable."

She laughed, and the boat rocked harder. Loki nearly lost his balance. "_Aurora_," she croaked. That was the only thing she ever said, and she chanted it obsessively, like a prayer. "Aroura… A-rora… Auror-a… Ah…_rore_…ah…"

"_Pabbi!"_

Jörm's cry precipitated from the air just as Loki heard the sky rip clean down the middle. The bolt of blazing white lightning tangled between the mast and rigging, branches enveloping his son like a cage of root rot. The sail caught fire, and the boy lost his footing on the rope. He fell, his safety line snapping taught midway down, swinging him far outboard, into the storm, helplessly writhing in the wind. Pieces of burning canvas rained down around him.

Loki lunged forward, but was pulled back by two long, mantis-like arms. They were white and frail, but her grip was as solid as steel. "How long do you think you can keep that love-child hidden?" she said into his ear, using perfect, musical Icelandic. "Do you understand _me_, you program, you pathetic heap of code? If you breathe a word to that agent, I will reveal _your_ little secret. I know the Frenchman would love another pair of exiles to barter. Do you know what he does to his prisoners? … _because__I do_."

"You do? ... What _are_ you?"

She didn't answer at first, holding him close against her chest. Her hair reeked so potently of seaweed and fish that he was nearly sick. Finally, with a nod to the helpless boy swinging in the gales, she said, "I am _angry_, Loki. But I'm not nearly as evil as you are." Her hand wrapped around his neck. "Jörm would probably like it if I killed you."

"What…" he gasped. "What do you want?"

"I've been telling you. I've been saying it all along."

"Yes… you seek this… _Aurora_. But I don't understand. I have never heard this name."

She snarled into his ear, and for a moment Loki was sure she'd kill him. Rain poured down in a sudden monsoon and the winds around them blasted to what must have been a hundred knots. Thirty feet overhead, Jörm's line snapped, and the boy was blown down to the deck with terminal force.

Loki pulled free and ran astern, through the rain, which trickled to nothing as quickly as it had come. The waves subsided, and moonlight glistened on the deck. In a generous pile of canvas and net thrown from an overturned storage crate, Jörm grunted and pulled himself upright. They looked up and saw the last flames burn out along the mast.

"_Now_ do you believe me?" the boy demanded as he untangled his legs from the rope.

"A lucky fall."

"Not _lucky_. She could have killed me, father. But she didn't."

The captain looked behind him, where the bilge's hatch was closed tight. "The only one who'd be killing you tonight is me, boy," he said. "If you had a lick of sense you'd know that by now. Now get to bed."

Later that night, old Loki went to the galley and scavenged what Icelandic delicacies he could manage- a bowl of thick blood pudding, five cubes of rotten shark meat, and a half-empty bottle of vodka. He snuck out in the dead of night and delivered the meal to the bilge, only to be sent back with everything except the fork and knife.

"Did this shark have teeth?" she demanded. (He had to admit that yes, it had been the kind of shark that had teeth.) "Then bring me the teeth and gums, and the brain if you kept it," she said. "Don't trouble yourself with a bowl. The skull will serve nicely."

Disgusted and appalled at her barbaric appetite, Loki indignantly asked if she would like anything for dessert.

"Spiders," came the answer, hissed from the darkness on a heavy breath. "Bring me spiders, Loki. As many as you can find."

* * *


	3. 1001001

* * *

100**1**001

* * *

When Rorie awoke that morning, she knew it was going to be an exceptional day. In her experience, days that begun exceptionally tended to continue and climax in the same manner, and certainly, this October the thirty-first had started in a way nobody would soon forget. 

The screaming began before first-light and continued until her mother, hoarse and exhausted from the exertion, fled the family home in her nightgown. Her father followed suite, stopping only to retch a citrine mixture of phlegm, bile and water. He raced out after his wife, throwing off his undershirt and clawing violently at his skin. They slammed the door shut behind them and locked it, leaving passers by to wonder at why Neo and Trinity were half-naked on the catwalk. Another of their kinky love games gone awry? Trinity was certain the neighbors would say so.

Inside, the spiders homed to the vomit as their natal feast, though Rorie puzzled over this. She noted the odd behavior in her log. _Fascinating!_ she scrawled emphatically, underlining it twice. _Absolutely brilliant! _

She was in raptures. There were hundreds, or even hundreds of hundreds of baby spiders to collect, catalogue and study. Perhaps for obvious reasons, many had cumulated in the warm folds of the family beds. Rorie commenced work by shaking out her sheets and blankets, pausing every now and then to pick another specimen from her clothing or her hair.

(In a not necessarily unconnected event, Rorie had dreamed of being kidnapped by a masked assailant who brutally stripped her of her clothes, strapped her down and tickled her to madness with the tip of a raven feather. She awoke laughing and crying all at once, her shrieks of erotic torment mingling with the chorus of terror that had already begun in her parents' bedroom.)

Ineed, The Daughter of The One was a queer bird by all conventional measures. At the fanciful age of seventeen she called herself a biologist, which in Zion was rare enough to be considered eccentric (or possibly evil, depending on whom you asked). If she were foolish enough to use the word _entomologist_, the reaction would be even worse. 'I study bugs,' she'd finally concede, usually to a council member's daft mistress or deaf mother at a temple gathering. 'You know… _bugs_?'

The reaction was as priceless as it was predictable. Aurora, the much celebrated daughter of the great war heroes Neo and Trinity wanted to study _bugs_ for a living. And the angels wept! All of humanity was doomed! (And a whole bunch of other nonsense that Rorie complained about in her diary nightly.)

"Well, we've really done it this time," she admitted, rueful as she addressed the infestation at large. "Mom's gonna kill me."

The most critical question was where all the spiders had come from. This was not one of her experiments gone wrong (although Rorie was certain that she'd be blamed for everything). If she weren't so stubbornly logical in her science, she would have used the term _paranormal_.

At least, maternal origin was clear enough. Rorie kept a large Golden Orb sewer spider named Pyro as a pet, and that morning she'd found her shivering in her cage, belly torn open and blood everywhere. (Rorie wrote in her notebook: _method of delivery – explosion?)_ It was perplexing when one considered that spiders were known to lay eggs. And what of the father? Rorie had never even _seen_ a male Golden Orb.

"Pyro's been naughty," was Knight's highly scientific analysis of the situation. "Your pet has more of a sex life than you do. Write that down in your notebook."

But he was an idiot. She couldn't even begin to tell him how much of an idiot he was. With an aggression that was half-serious, she mussed the back of his blonde, curly head and formed a fist in his hair. He was sitting at her kitchen table and she was standing behind his chair, so that when he leaned his head back his face was upside down. His eyes - amber colored with flecks of gold – stared up at her with amused suspicion. She liked his eyes, but something about his expression was insufferable. She let him go.

They were childhood playmates and adolescent confidantes, she and Knight. It was an improbable friendship that nobody could explain, given that he was an orphan of the matrix and a full four years older than her. Her parents had brought him back from the fields a decade ago, and since then he'd become something of a protégé to Trinity, wowing the Academy with record-setting test scores and now serving his fourth year as an officer on the Neb. Rorie still considered him her best friend, despite the fact that recently, they had reached a point in the relationship where they didn't quite know what to do with each other.

Sometimes, Rorie feared that they were growing apart. Perhaps, she worried, they were just too different to stay close. He was gregarious and whimsical, which made her bookish and tiresome– though Knight laughed at her when she said so. Of course you are! he'd exclaim joyously, as if he hadn't been listening to her at all and only guessed that she'd given herself a compliment. But then he'd add, You're also boring!

And what could she say to that? She found herself furious with him that he couldn't be serious. But whenever she tried to call him on it she ended up sounding like a fool, picking a fight over nothing. It wasn't nothing. There was something between them, she knew it was there, and the imminent confrontation (whatever it was to be about, for she hadn't yet decided on the source of the tension) bothered her like an itch that she couldn't scratch.

Knight was helping her collect spiders into laboratory glassware, coffee cups and condiment jars when he paused and said, "Your mom's talking about selling the cave and moving to the east arc."

"Great. An even snobbier neighborhood."

"She's also talking about taking a trip to the dock for a plasma gun."

"You can't kill spiders with a plasma gun."

"No, the plasma gun is to kill _you_. I'm telling you, Trin is _mad_."

Knight liked to use her mother's shortened name, and he liked even more to know when she was in certain moods. Rorie chalked it up to his way of assuring his place in the family, of reminding everyone that he belonged, though the insecurity was utterly misguided. Everyone knew Trinity adored him like a son. Often, Rorie felt he belonged in this family more than she did.

"She's scared of spiders, did you know that?" he asked. "_Terrified_ of them. She saw one on the Neb once and she was so freaked out she asked me to kill it with the blowtorch. Like, stepping on it wasn't enough. It had to fry."

"Naturally, it never occurred to either of you that I might want to study it." Of course, the complaint sounded ridiculous given that her home was now overrun with specimens. Knight seemed to be thinking the same thing, and shrugged it off.

"One of the guys paid me five and a half to eat it. It was pretty good, actually. Crunchy. Maybe I've discovered a new delicacy."

"It's already a Zionist delicacy. They sell cooked insects at the bazaar all the time. Beetle, spider, cicada, roach, centipede. They're high in protein, vitamins, niacin and riboflavin…"

He was making a face, so she stopped talking. It was that look of smiling curiosity again. He didn't want a biochemistry lecture. She sounded silly.

Rorie looked away to hide irritation. This is how it was with them lately. The conversation never flowed smoothly, it was all jumps and gaps and sharp edges. She wasn't imagining it - he'd changed. She didn't understand him.

When Knight spoke again he was perfectly pleasant. "It's Halloween," he said. "You're still coming to the play, right?"

"Oh, is that _tonight_?" she was teasing now, determined not to let him see how frustrated she was. "I forgot."

"Nervous?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that? You're the one that's going to be on the stage in front of hundreds of people, wearing almost nothing."

"I meant are you nervous about losing that Rocky Horror virginity? Are you ready to the thrilled, chilled and fulfilled?"

She didn't know what to say. Knight's Halloween tradition of dressing in women's clothing and singing rock 'n roll show-tunes fell somewhere in the great social divide between the free-born and those from the fields. From the little she understood of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a cast of actors stood in front of a movie screen and acted out the film while it was playing. The plot was a kinky parody of the traditional horror genre, amok with dancing, singing, sex and gore. The audience was supposed to dress in costumes as their favorite character, and heckling was encouraged. Diehard fans recited the script word for word and brought props to enhance the experience.

Rorie said honestly, "I don't know. I don't think it's my kind of scene."

"You'll love it. I promise you you'll love it. Our cast this year is great. Well, I'm the best, of course, but not everyone can be held to the same standards of comedic genius."

She rolled her eyes and made sure he saw it. "As I recall, last year you broke your heel and had to be rushed to the hospital."

"One must suffer for one's art. Now I'm a legend. People are coming just to see if I fall again."

Rorie couldn't argue with that. Academy hallways and community billboards were filled with advertisements for the Show, giving Knight top billing as the cross-dressing bisexual transvestite turned mad-scientist, Dr. Frank N. Furter:

_Like last year, come see him sing and dance!  
Like last year, come see his pretty hair shine and bounce!  
Like last year, come see his right ankle snap like a twig!  
**Give yourself over to absolute pleasure!**_

Rorie's memory of the night her friend made theatrical history was a little different than most. She hadn't been there, but recalled vividly that the household was woken up near one in the morning with a phone call. Knight was hurt and her mother was going to the emergency room to see if he was alright. Rorie decided to go with her. What the two women found when they arrived was a sight neither would ever forget. Knight was lying on a gurney, one of his legs in a cast, the other sausaged in fishnet hosiery. He wore a corset, black panties, lipstick and eyeliner – but not even cakes of makeup could hide the mortified expression on his face. "Trinity!" he gasped, and yanked so hard at the blankets underneath in an attempt to cover himself that he rolled right off the table and onto the floor. At this point, Trinity deadpanned to the doctor, "How many operations would it take to change him back into a man? Ball park figure."

But unlike her daughter, Trinity had required no explanation of the Rocky Horror subculture. As it so happened, long ago in the matrix she'd been a fan herself. Recently, she'd even taken to helping Knight with his lines. "I grow weary of this world!" she'd exclaim in a comically exaggerated Hungarian accent. "When shall we return to Transylvania?"

Needless to say, Trinity was also coming to the Show that night and Rorie planned to sit as far away from her as possible.

"I could _kill_ you for inviting my mother," Rorie said for what must have been the tenth time in the span of a few weeks. They had finished hunting for spiders in the kitchen and had moved to her bedroom. "She's sure to embarrass me."

"Are you kidding? You have the coolest mom in the city."

"Not everyone shares your idol-like worship of her, Knight." She wasn't looking at him, but searching her dresser for spiders. "How would you feel if I invited _your_ mom to everything?"

He didn't answer, and Rorie instantly regretted the question. In ten years, she'd never heard Knight so much as mention the woman that he'd call his mother. It wasn't for her to bring it up. Another misstep. What was it with her lately? Subconsciously, was she trying to goad him?

Angry with herself, Rorie yanked open a dresser drawer a little too aggressively. She screamed. In the center of a pile of her underthings – bras, panties and slips, hundreds of spiders had made some kind of nest. They swarmed out and away from the light, disappearing into the inner working of her furniture. By the time Knight had come over to see what had startled her, every single one had vanished.

* * *


	4. 1002001

* * *

100**2**001

* * *

"Neo! Neee-oh! Have you seen my boobs?"

The One made an educated guess that his wife meant to ask about the status of her _booze_. And judging from the confused mispronunciation, it sounded as if she'd already had too much. He sighed and checked his watch. It wasn't even nine in the morning.

Morpheus barely looked up from his breakfast. "I'd get in there if I were you," was the weighty advice of the retired captain of the Nebuchadnezzar. "Because _I'm_ not about to show them to her."

Niobe sat at the other end of the table, grinning from ear to ear. "I don't think I've ever seen her like this," she said. "That daughter of yours should give seminars to agents and sentinels. She's like kryptonite for you guys."

Neo found her amusement trying. And he didn't want to talk about Rorie, or agents, or sentinels. "I'm sorry about this," he said. "Trin and I are both really grateful for letting us crash on you this morning –"

"Neee-oh!" The impatient cry echoed from the bathroom. "My boobs! My boob… oh, shit. What the hell am I saying? Boob… boob… booh… oh, goddamnit bring me the _alcohol_!"

Morpheus' huge shoulders trembled as he laughed. Neo was pleased to see that Niobe had inhaled some coffee and was now choking on it.

He loved his daughter, he told himself. And he loved his wife. He'd been married for nearly eighteen years, and if the price for perennial joy was the occasional ingestion of killer spiders and servitude to an intoxicated spouse, then he could live with that. That is to say, he could live with it, until one day, God willing, it killed him.

"Happy Halloween, pumpkin!" he announced at the bathroom door. Given the circumstances, the pun sounded perverse, even to him. Trinity lay in the bathtub, dangerously close to passing out and drowning herself.

"Neo," she moaned, "I was… I think I was saying boobs to you."

He smiled. "It's okay. I understood you."

"Niobe… she was laughing at me."

"No she wasn't."

"But I _heard_ her. Neo, I think she knows I'm drunk."

"Nonsense." He knelt next to the tub. "You hide it so well."

In a gesture of embarrassment, Trinity bit her lower lip and covered her face with her hand. Still smiling, Neo just watched her. It was not long however, before his attention fell onto her silver skin, then more specifically, onto a small pool of water that had cumulated in the chiseled dip between her collarbones. _Wet_. She was wet. He liked everything to do with his wife being wet. It was utterly pathetic of him, he knew. But the steam had curled the hair around her temples, and her breasts were wide apart, only half submerged. He hadn't played with those breasts in days. And now, after so much deprivation, he was presented with ivory curves and a triangular, inky smudge dancing in broken light. As a man, what was he to do?

"_Hmmm_." Trinity smiled. "You're a pervert, Mr. One."

Quite so. Still worse was that he was lusting after his _wife_, of all people. Neo often wondered if it was abnormal, eighteen years later, to still want to devour her so. She was still beautiful. Still fit, capable, sexy. But every cliché regarding matrimony told him that that he should be bored by now. He should want someone younger, someone different, something to chase and conquer. Perhaps it was genetic, he mused, though he knew absolutely nothing about genetics – but it seemed possible that he lacked the gene that prewired males to stray. This theory seemed to ring true– at least, it was a much better explanation than the common opinion in Zion, which was that he was 'whipped.'

People just didn't understand. Biologically, he could love only one woman. When he thought of sex, he thought of Trinity. And when he thought of Trinity, it wasn't long before he thought of sex. Even when she was drunk and angry, she was still the most delicious thing he'd ever seen.

"Do you like that?" Neo asked on a barely-audible breath, slowly tracing a circle around an elevated kneecap. "That I'm a pervert?"

She whispered, "Don't."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Just a little, Trin." By now his hand was fully under water. He wanted to know exactly how _wet_ she was. But Trinity caught his wrist. He could imagine her head spinning with the alcohol and steam. He could imagine himself pressing his tongue to her throat. But she had decided. What she said next obliterated any prospect for intimacy.

"Neo, this is _Morpheus'_ bathtub."

The hilarity of it destroyed him. Trinity wrinkled up her face and stuck out her tongue to illustrate how the idea of sex in Morpheus' bathtub was comically revolting. She giggled, trying her best to hold it in. Then she hiccupped, which set them both off laughing. Neo made a move to cover her mouth but she slapped his hand away and splashed him, screeching when he retaliated in kind. Bubbles and water went everywhere. Positive they were being overheard, he shushed her harshly, pinning her wrists onto the side of the tub.

"Be good!" he ordered.

She had a dangerous look in her eyes.

"Trin, if you're not going to behave in Morpheus' bathtub then we're just going to have to go somewhere else. Is that what you want?"

She smiled. Then he smiled.

"I could get us a room," he said. "We could play."

Trinity seemed to give it some thought. "No," was the final verdict. "Let's just… elope."

"Elope?"

"In the Neb."

"In the Neb?"

"To the sewers. Far away from everything." A lithe, white arm lifted from the water and gestured towards some distant, imaginary paradise. "Take me away, Neo. Take me away and have your way with me. Kidnap me if that's what you want. Fake our deaths and keep me as a wench in your subterranean lair. Just let's get out of this city."

She painted a pretty picture, and his imagination took the plot further still. He was a crazed rapist, she, a naïve nun from the Zionist convent. He'd tie her up, throw her into the Neb's cargo hold and take her to a place where nobody would hear her screams. But that's where the plot would turn uglier still, when it was revealed that Trinity was not a nun at all, but the evil Mother Superior, a master disciplinarian and martial artist extraordinaire. Before the night was through, she'd teach him a lesson he would not soon forget!

It was such a stirring fantasy, Neo made himself the solemn promise that it would happen. Whatever it took, it would be so! But Trinity's heavy lids and dizzy movements gave him cause to worry that she wasn't serious. He'd have to seal the deal now. All the bases must be covered. Most likely, she was still furious with their daughter, so it was best to get that out of the way first. Knight was another matter entirely.

"Are you sure?" he asked innocently. "What about Rorie?"

"Rorie!" Trinity frowned. "She tried to kill me this morning!"

"She didn't mean it. You know, she might miss us on Halloween."

Ever since Rorie was little, they'd maintained the family tradition of a candy and gifts on Halloween night. The celebration was a Frankenstein-esq hodgepodge of activities taken from other holidays like Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter, which were not celebrated in Zion – it was their way of giving Rorie some idea of their own childhoods. They had a Halloween Tree, and candy hidden throughout the apartment for Rorie to collect in a basket. A bag of Zionist spices served as mistletoe, which Knight liked to take advantage of when he joined them for dinner. He'd show up and then find some way of maneuvering Trinity into the trap (which naturally, Neo had intended for his use _only_) – and Trinity played along by pecking the boy on the cheek. Knight was delighted; Neo didn't like it at all. Perhaps for this reason more than any other, he was not too forlorn about bagging the celebration in favor of a much-deserved second honeymoon.

"But maybe Rorie's too old for all that," he mused reasonably. "It might be time to let her go out on her own. Isn't she going to Knight's show?"

"Oh, no." Trinity sighed, suddenly remembering. "I promised him I'd go and see his play tonight."

"They'll always be next year. Besides, Rorie probably doesn't want to share him with you."

"So I'll ground her and she can stay home with her spiders. Problem solved. She'd probably thank me."

"I've already called an exterminator."

"Good." Trinity shook her head. "What are we going to do with her?"

"Let her go tonight. She doesn't go out enough. That's part of the problem. Then I'll have a talk with her when we get back and tell her Pyro will have to find a new place to live."

Trinity hummed enthusiastically. "I'm holding you to that."

"I promise." Neo could feel he was very close. "Should I pack you an overnight bag, then?"

Her eyes narrowed, and the furrow of her brow him he'd said the wrong thing. "Manipulating your drunk wife?" she asked, making a show of being scandalized. "Oh, that's very bad, Mr. One. Can't you see I'm vulnerable?"

"Positively helpless." He brought his mouth to her temple, kissed her tenderly and then moved lower to her ear. "You have no idea they ways I plan to take advantage of you. By tomorrow morning, I'll be guilty of unspeakable crimes, unless you can keep me in line."

He took her chin in his hand, and her head turned at last so their lips could met. She was hot and permissive. He was greedy and triumphant. He used his tongue to unlock her mouth – the tiny sigh she gave marked his victory. He'd won. He knew he'd won, and perhaps this was all the chase and conquest he needed. Such pride came with seducing her, over and over again. "We'll need a good excuse," she breathed into his mouth. "Something to tell Rorie."

"Exiles." His kisses turned more aggressive, bites now, on her lip and chin. "The exiles are acting up. The One to the rescue!"

"Which exiles is it this time?"

He moved to her neck. "Aliens."

"Aliens! Oh, I _love_ the aliens!"

"So do I." Where was that place between her collarbones he'd fetished over earlier? He would claim it at last! "They're short and green and deadly as shit."

Trinity closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Her fingers laced through his hair. "Weapons?"

"Ray guns and mind control."

"Ships?"

"Flying saucers."

"Probes?"

"If you like."

Trinity grinned, not noticing when a stray spider from her husband's hair crawled over her fingers. "I think I might."

* * *


	5. 1003001

* * *

100**3**001

* * *

At twenty-one years old, Knight was reasonably sure that he had reached the pinnacle of self-awareness. That is to say, he knew who he was, and what he wanted, and how he was going to get it, and why he wanted what he was going to get. Where others were lost, he was found. Where others floundered in a sea of their own uncertainly, he stood firmly on safe, solid ground – _terra Knight._

Firstly, he was _hot_. Not that looks were everything, but physical appearance was always a good starting point when defining oneself. Begin on the surface, was his philosophy, and then (if you have time) delve deeper. Fortunately, his next realization was that he was shallow and so there wasn't much further to go. No, not shallow – because that word implied shallowness. He was not shallow. He was _uncomplicated_.

That's what Rorie didn't understand about him. Because she, Knight reasoned with conviction, was _complicated_. And complicated people seek to complicate other people who really aren't complicated at all. And so when one immensely complicated person gets together with another completely uncomplicated person… well, it tends to complicate things.

Rorie had made a big show of apologizing about mentioning his mother. As if it were something taboo and unspeakable, that he didn't really have one. He'd found a message in his inbox, sent not long after he'd left her that morning,

…_I don't know what came over me, to say something so insensitive. I hope you don't think I'm awful. Lately, I don't know, things have been strange between us. Can we make amends? – R. _

Knight had no idea what to do with such a letter. He had not been offended. There was nothing to forgive. If things were strange between them – and certainly, they were now that she had written him this cryptic message about things that never happened - it was entirely her fault, her invention. It was madness, he told himself, pure madness!

He'd written her back, quite simply, that his lack of parentage was as inconsequential as the plugs on his back and chest. Everything that he was, he'd invented. This was what it was to be free.

It was not an accident that he and Rorie were friends. He'd _chosen_ her. He'd met her as a boy of twelve and liked her instantly. Over time, he'd grown to like her more. She was intelligent, witty, honest and tenacious in her beliefs. She was graceful. She was sweet. Every single day, he _chose_ her. He chose to trust her, to support her, to protect her, to rely on her, to laugh with her and to elevate her friendship above all others. She was special because he judged her as special. That was his choice. In his world, there was no room for imagined _strangeness_ appearing magically between two people. Why on earth would he call his closest friend _awful_ because she brought up his mother? What _mother_? Surely, Rorie had gone out of her mind.

He'd seen it happen before, with all his deranged ex-girlfriends. He should have known that it was bound to happen with Rorie, too. Lo and behold! She was becoming an honest-to-goodness _woman_. A _woman!_ And this worried him. He was not good at maintaining '_friendships'_ with _women_. For obvious reasons, they always wanted more than just friendship from him (damn his good looks – they could be such a burden!). And then, for reasons that were less easy for Knight to understand, once they got what they wanted, they always ended up hating him.

The mental image of Rorie taking off her shoes and throwing them at his head was unpleasant, to say the least. He would have to do everything in his power to make sure this did not happen. The only answer (and he never thought this could be the answer to _anything_), was abstinence. If it ever came up, no matter how much she begged, there would be no sex. The friendship was just too important, and he loved Rorie far too much to put her through such suffering – _emotional_ suffering, he meant. Because physically, well, let's just say he'd never had any complaints.

It was half an hour before the afternoon dress rehearsal when she knocked on his dressing-room door. He was applying mascara and nearly blinded himself when he saw her. Their eyes met through the reflection in his mirror, and she smiled coyly.

"So?" she asked. "What do you think?"

She explained that she'd worn a cloak and hood on the elevators so nobody could see what she was wearing underneath – she felt so conspicuous she'd nearly turned back twice. Was it too much, she wanted to know? But she couldn't be serious. She had to be joking. For a moment he thought perhaps she was teasing him (teasing was what _women_ did to men, after all). But he was fooling himself; he could see the nervous glint of sincerity in her eyes. Truly, she did not know.

The outfit worshipped every curve of her body. There were black netted tights, tiny little shorts, and a heart-cut bodice encrusted with gemstones. Her long, raven hair was up in her usual Princess Leah buns, showing off bare milky shoulders and a thin, studded collar around the neck. It was a strange dichotomy of cute and suggestive that Knight couldn't quite reconcile. If anything, it kept him staring.

He still hadn't said anything, so she went on. She was assuming this was the costume she should wear to the show. Her mother had left it under the tree. Her Halloween present, apparently. (Knight had already guessed as much – this smacked of Trinity's questionable brand of motherly influence.)

"Do you know who you are?" he asked at last. She shook her head and shrugged. He explained, "You're Columbia. You're the tap-dancing lover of an ex-delivery boy whom I lobotomize, cryogenically freeze, and murder with an ice-pick. Then we all eat him for dinner."

Her expression was priceless. "How charming."

"Actually your character wouldn't think so. You were crazy about him. In fact, you get so upset with me that I have to turn you into a stone statue with my Medusa device. But then I de-Medusa you for the floor show where we all dance and sing and make out. Long story short, the butler comes out with a ray gun and the show ends tragically for both of us."

"Dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

"In one another's arms?"

"No. My character's tastes are for less… conventional fare."

"Oh." Was she pretending to be disappointed to hide the fact that she was? He couldn't read her. Somehow, all of a sudden, the person he knew best had become a mystery. "Mom and Dad left for the sewers," she said. "There's some trouble with aliens."

"_Aliens_?"

Rorie came over and propped herself on his dressing table. "It's those green ones with mind control bubble chambers again. You know the ones I mean. There's another invasion and Dad had to go stop it."

She was so earnest, so unquestioning, he had to bite his own tongue to keep from laughing. Her parents were downright cruel to her sometimes. And Neo was a shifty sonofabitch, whisking Trin away on a day she was supposed to go to _his_ play, and give _him_ a kiss under the mock-mistletoe. Knight narrowed his eyes. Very clever, Mr. One. Very clever indeed…

"I'm surprised they didn't take you with them," Rorie babbled on naively. "It must have been really serious. They were in such a hurry to leave."

"I'm sure they were."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh, Rorie." He gave her 'the look.' She knew the look – the look they'd been exchanging for ten years. Her eyes went as round as two saucers of spice-brown tea, and her hand covered her mouth.

"No!" she gasped. "You mean there are no aliens? Like… _ever_? All those other times?"

"No. The matrix has never been invaded by aliens. But don't let on that I told you. They love that excuse."

"That's awful!"

"Yeah, I know. You'd think they'd be able to come up with something a little more believable than--"

"No, I mean they were fighting aliens during my last science fair." She folded her arms crossly. "I spent forever on those ant colonies!"

He laughed. This was absolutely_, purely_ Rorie. Poor Zionist princess! He was idiotic to think she could be trying to seduce him. At this rate, it was impressive she could tie her own shoes without his guidance. "What would you do without me?" he asked merrily. "You're hopeless."

"They should be ashamed of themselves. Mom didn't even leave any candy for the orphans this year. I don't know what I'm going to hand out at the door. Maybe I'll cook."

"Right. Why disappoint the poor things when you could poison them instead?"

"Well, I wouldn't _have_ to cook if Mom and Dad could keep their hands off each other. It's Halloween, for goodness' sake. They should be home."

"Missing them already?" he asked, going back to his makeup. "What's the matter? The spiders aren't as good company as you thought they'd be?"

"Actually, I find them very… stimulating."

"I thought it was suspicious that most of them were in your bed."

"I meant _intellectually_ stimulating, you oaf."

"You've raised an army of sex spiders to service your every need."

"Oh, you make me sick."

Another good sign: repulsion. Surely, the friendship had never been safer. As Rorie stared at him askew, Knight felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Thank goodness he could become undesirable at will. It was like a super-power, only backwards. "How is your girlfriend Pyro, then?" he went on. "Is she going to pull through?"

"It looks like it. I caught her eating some of the babies, which is a good sign, you know, that her appetite is back."

"And now it's my turn to be disgusted."

But she wasn't listening to him. Rorie had slid off his countertop and was wrapping herself up in the cloak. "I'm sorry, I have to go," she said. "I just had a wonderful idea about the candy. I'll see you tonight, at the show."

Elegantly, she lifted the hood above her head to hide the hairdo that – with golden barrettes and amethyst bobbles– made her easily recognizable in a crowd. "Good luck and all that," she said. "Sorry about that note, by the way. I realized the moment I sent it that you wouldn't understand. Just forget about it, okay?"

Understand what? What was she talking about? Knight said, "Of course I understand."

"Just, forget it. Probably nothing." She smiled, and he grew more confused still. "Break a leg out there. Or an ankle, or whatever it is you do to become so popular with people."

* * *


	6. 1004001

* * *

100**4**001

* * *

Over the course of several hours, Pyro had effectively barricaded herself in the corner of her aquarium, under a pile of leftovers. The exoskeletons of her young - heads, torsos, appendages – had been scraped clean of soft tissue and discarded in a heap above her. Covering all of this was a net of heavily-layered web, fused to the glass walls and metal base. It was a feat of engineering: nothing larger than a crumb could get in or out.

Was she hiding? Rorie guessed that after a huge meal, the new mother might have felt in need of some sleep. In that case, it made sense for her to construct a safe spot, away from the swarming offspring which were perhaps not above the practice of cannibalism themselves. Indeed, Rorie could see that the siblings had already turned on each other, with their numerous containers littered with tiny bodies, some intact, others in various states of dismemberment. Rorie took out her notepad and recorded the carnage in detail. Then, with all the care of a doting parent, she uncovered Pyro who, as expected, was found curled into a ball, sleeping soundly.

She was a beautiful spider. Her name was inferred from her color – brilliant yellow and orange speckles against a shiny black background. Rorie had found her years ago while helping her father unload the Neb's cargo containers. Pyro was very little then, about the size of a coin, but had since grown to larger than the palm of a hand.

Pyro was also extremely intelligent, as Rorie liked to demonstrate to bemused dinner guests with the use of a maze and some dead flies. And she had a fantastic personality. She was sociable, but often shy and mistrustful of strangers. In a rather amusing quirk, she hated Knight with a viciousness that was unheard of, even for a spider (to this day, he was the only person she'd ever bitten, and she'd bitten him more than once).

"Wake up," Rorie whispered, scooping her pet out of the aquarium. "We have to make candy for the orphans, and I have a wonderful idea."

Pyro's long, crablike legs stretched out and surveyed the familiar contours of Rorie's fingers. Drowsily, she stepped from one hand to the other, checking and feeling, before scurrying up an arm and onto a shoulder. The tickling sensation on Rorie's neck said hello.

"I was talking with Knight and it just came to me, what would be the perfect treat — yes, I went to see him. I wanted to tell him to forget that stupid letter. You were right. I should never have sent it. It made things worse."

Rorie tried not to worry too much about whether or not talking to her spider meant she was insane. The bottom line was, Pyro was the ideal conversationalist. She didn't prattle on like Rorie's other girlfriends, and she knew how to keep a secret. What's more, Pyro was interesting. Rorie had never known a more interesting individual in her entire life.

For instance, Pyro had a very _interesting_ theory about what it would be like to have sex with Knight. (Rorie, being the Zionist ideal of chastity and goodness, was not the kind of girl who ever thought about such things.) But Pyro had devoted some of her considerable spare time to the matter, and the verdict was that he was vile. He was vile because he was completely incapable of being serious about anything and so he ruined what would otherwise be a blissful union between two soul-mates with his silliness. Pyro had once articulated a hilarious mental picture of him as a cartoon character, with his eyeballs bulging out of their sockets and the shape of a heart thrusting out of his chest, and thought bubbles exclaiming _Wow!_ and _Yee-haw!_ appearing over his head as it enthusiastically bobbed up and down. He was a vile love-maker, opined the spider, and that's why his relationships never lasted more than a few weeks, and that's why he had to get up on a stage wearing almost nothing and sing and dance to a crowd of screaming girls. He was promiscuous because he was insecure because he was desperate because he was vile, and he was to be pitied for that.

In the kitchen, Rorie set about gathering the ingredients she needed to make the candy. Because she knew what a wicked bias Pyro had against Knight, she decided to come to his defense. "I don't think he's vile," she said, setting her containers of spiders on the table. She started to sort out the dead ones, tossing them in a large skillet. "A lot of girls find him handsome."

The truth was, he was very handsome. Pyro didn't see it, but that's because she was a spider and what did spiders know about what made a human being attractive?

"If anyone's _vile_, it's my parents," Rorie went on. "You will never believe what Knight told me. You know the aliens? Well, they don't exist. _Aliens_ is code for 's' - 'e' – 'x' in the sewers. They're probably out there right now, doing it like there's no tomorrow."

The spider was disgusted, but not surprised.

Rorie scowled. "You most certainly did not _tell me so_."

The spider reminded her of the ant colonies.

"Oh, all right." Rorie doused the dead spiders in cooking oil and placed the skillet on the stove to fry. "Now don't get your legs in a knot," she said. "I don't plan on cooking _you_."

Only all of her mutilated children. They'd be delicious, Rorie had decided, with a coating of sugar and a few drops of an extra special ingredient that she liked to call… _science_. From the back of a crooked cabinet under the utensil drawer, she produced a test tube rack filled with vials labeled in her handwriting,

Isopropyl acetate_ – __**banana**_  
Octyl acetate_ – __**orange**_  
Ethyl formate_ - __**rum**_  
Methyl 2-aminobenzoate_ - __**grape**_  
Ethyl butanoate_ - __**pineapple**_** …**

These were the fruits of countless hours of labor in the laboratory as part of an ongoing project to discover the link between chemical structure, taste, and code. So far she hadn't uncovered much, but her synthetic analogues did prove useful in the kitchen, especially when it came to camouflaging the taste of her mother's cooking. As Rorie mused about which flavor would complement best the arachnid tang of spider, her hand stopped and hovered above her personal favorite. Theobromine, the label read_. Chocolate. _

"Did you know that the compound theobromine doesn't actually contain the element bromine?" Rorie asked the spider as she plucked the tube off the rack. She combined the white powder with sugar and water and set it on the stove to boil. "In fact, the name is derived from the greek roots _theo_, meaning god, and _broma_, meaning food – which makes this bitter alkaloid etiologically, _the food of the gods_. It's similar in structure to caffeine and two of the four nucleotide bases found in our DNA. Which kinda makes you wonder - maybe somewhere out in the universe there's a species of aliens whose genetic code is _literally_ made up of chocolate and coffee. Like, xenobiology's answer to gingerbread men and gummie bears." Rorie chuckled and checked her shoulder for Pyro's reaction. The spider was asleep. "Oh, fine," she sighed. "Well, none for you."

She used a fork to stab several tangled burrs of spider from the sizzling pan and dipped them into the sweet theobromine syrup. She blew on it, sniffed the concoction reticently, then took the entire forkful into her mouth. The aroma and taste danced on her tongue – sweet at first, then spicy and bitter. "Mmm!" she exclaimed. "Pyro, I don't know what you did, or _who_ you did, but these are to die for."

Rorie decided to bake the final product to give it a nice crunch. While the oven preheated, she skewered and glazed the spiders, lining them up on a metal sheet. Guiltily, she ate nearly as many as she made, a few at first, then entire mouthfuls. She couldn't get over how wonderful they tasted, how creamy and yet sharp the flavor, how the thick warmth seemed to flow down her throat to her stomach, and lower… and still lower. She thought of Knight again. She thought of a time they'd been riding a crowded elevator together – she'd been trapped between his chest and the wall, with his arms braced on either side of her for balance. She was so tiny compared to him, so fragile. That close, pressed together fully, his body made her feel… helpless. She didn't like it. A sudden sweat cooled her brow and temples, down her neck and between her breasts. Her knees were weak and her heart fluttered painfully. She couldn't seem to get enough air. Something was wrong, she thought, something was burning.

Rorie kept herself standing with one hand on the counter. Carefully, she reached over the smoking skillet, holding position has her fingers brushed the power dial. She dipped her head, bit by bit, towards the sizzling pan, farther and farther, until she could hear.

It wasn't sizzling. It was _screaming_.

"No," she gasped, horrified as the spiders writhed and shrieked. They were still alive, on fire, cooking to death. They'd release panic pheromones into the air, alerting the others. The others would come, and the others would kill her. Rorie scorched her hand as she threw the pan onto the floor, emptying the contents at her feet. The bugs scrabbled onto her shoes, biting her ankles, chasing her onto a kitchen chair. "I'm sorry," she begged, climbing onto the table. "I didn't realize… I'm so sorry! Please! You'll be alright!"

Blinding noise, cutting through her ears and into her mind. What was it? An alarm, rallying the troops. A siren, perhaps imaginary, sounding her distress. Down on her knees, Rorie covered her ears and struggled for clarity. The room spun. The telephone, said a distant, downing voice of reason. Go answer it; they'll save you. But although her mind was alive with a million thoughts at once, her body was mired in torpor.

"Knight!" she cried, seeing him there, knowing he wasn't. _"Knight."_

His name was the last word from her lips as she was covered in a teeming pall of a million spiders. She fought and squirmed in futility, choking as they stuffed her windpipe. Soon, her mouth was so full she couldn't even scream. She choked on rising vomit, trapped behind the unstoppable force that buried her alive.

* * *


	7. 1005001

* * *

100**5**001

* * *

In death, Rorie found herself equipped with a Grey Goose martini and a party hat. The drink was garnished with a pair of human eyeballs impaled with a miniature sword, and the hat wished her a happy Halloween. A spider – the only thing familiar to her in this place - sat on her shoulder, unceremoniously grooming itself. "Oh, Pyro," Rorie whispered. "I don't think we're in Zion anymore." 

Indeed they were not. The famous balcony above Club Hel flickered and sparkled like an old film on a silver screen, grayscale and spotted. Rorie stood where her mother had once stood, at the convex precipice, staring down at a crowded dance floor of leather-bound exiles, thrashing and squirming to the industrial racket. A few paces away, an agent was holding an enormous feather like a staff, with the tip of the quill touching the marble at his feet and frayed barbules curling more that a foot over his head. Shreds of tissue hung from the greasy folds, dripping with blood and teeming with lice.

"The Witch is dead," the program announced, presenting the ghastly plume as evidence. "She killed herself, quite accidentally, with her own terrible kind of magic."

The Merovingian looked down his nose at the artifact. The code itself, glittering black and white, unraveled at the edges, dissolving into the kinds of archaic symbols that he hadn't seen in over six hundred years. When he reached out to touch it, columns of algorithms crumbled like a sand sculpture, pouring between his fingers in streams of digital ash.

"_What in ze hell?"_

With an efficient flick of the cuffs and arch of the eyebrows, the agent explained, "I chased the creature to the System's Edge where we fought for several days. Inevitably, I prevailed. However…"

"Yes?"

"Wings," reported the agent uneasily. "The thing… _conjured_ wings. But she did not fly. As you can see, they did considerable damage. She fell out of the realm of code - _this_ is all that remains." He frowned at the ashen code which dusted his loafers. "Remained."

"And why didn't you go after her?"

Behind dark sunglasses, the program shifted his eyes to The Merovingian's wife, whose full, feminine features were twisted into a menacing glare. Before daring to speak, he double-checked his basal programming – The Source was wise and good. "Nothing can survive beyond the System's Edge," he said. "The Witch has fallen into nothingness and has hence become nothingness. Had I followed her I would have ceased to exist as well."

At this Persephone smiled. It was an unkind, victorious sort of smile to her husband as she rose from the couch and walked towards the edge of the balcony. Rorie moved out of her way to avoid a collision. Apparently not noticing the girl and her spider at all, Persephone folded her arms on the thorny vines of wrought-iron railing and sighed something like ennui.

Incensed, her husband signaled to a group of vampire programs lurking in the shadows. "He's yours," he said. "Share him with the other guests."

The agent did not understand, but before he could form a question he was completely surrounded. Side by side, Persephone and Rorie watched from the balustrade as he was carried down to the dance floor, stripped and tied to an iron slab, where guests gathered with their switch blades and paper party plates at the ready.

"An agent is a rare delicacy these days," Persephone said with a wry grin. "Really, my love. You didn't think you could kill her with an appetizer?"

"I'll kill that little brat with my bare hands if she'd have the courage to face me."

"Oh, you're terrified. I've known you long enough to tell-"

The Merovingian cut her off by grabbing her arm and pulling her close. "This is not one of our games," he hissed. "If she falls into alliance with the rebels it will be absolute chaos! _Chaos_! She is already out of control."

"Out of _your_ control, you mean."

"Out of…!" he scoffed. "Out of _all_ control, woman! You're stupid if you think she won't return to kill us all. She is crazy! And it will be just her kind of craziness to destroy everything!"

"Don't be ridiculous. If she's so dangerous, why doesn't The Source-"

"It's gone too far. She is like a _weed_, Persephone. She has infected everything. If the Powers That Be could have plucked her out, they would have. You should have let me do it, a long time ago."

Persephone didn't reply, or even look at him. Instead, she opened a handheld vanity to check her hair and makeup. Rorie – mired in some inexplicable torpor - watched in bewilderment as she blanched her face with white powder and blackened her lips with thick, pitch gloss. Everything about her seemed to defy the laws of nature - her lashes, curling up toward her brow like spider's legs – her hair, coiffed into the impossible beehive of science fiction heroines and people who have just been electrocuted. And what kept her breasts in the scant cups of her gown was anybody's guess. Tape? Rorie made an unsuccessful attempt to pry her eyes away from the cleavage. _… Glue?_

It was then that something happened. It was impossible but it happened anyway. Persephone stopped primping herself and stared into the small, circular mirror. She blinked once, then twice at her reflection, raising a gloved hand to her face. "Oh God. What…" she gasped, "What's happening?"

"Oh, _shit!"_ The Merovingian yelled. His glass shattered on the floor. He made eye contact with his wife, and time stood still for that moment of recognition. It seemed to last forever. Perhaps sensing something evil, Pyro leapt from Rorie's shoulder and scurried under a table.

In a movement quicker than the blink of an eye, Persephone lunged for a henchman's AK-47. The Merovingian did the same. They took aim at each other and opened fire. The shots rang out over the pounding music and shells tinkled on the stone floor. Shrieking, Rorie fell to her knees and covered her ears.

After what seemed like an eternity, the couple ran out of ammunition. Miraculously, both of them were still standing, panting, snarling. Persephone snatched up a pairing knife and lunged through the settling dust. The Merovingian kicked it out of her hand and shoved her over the banquet table. Orgasm cake splattered everywhere. They rolled through the icing and rubbed each other's faces in it. The Merovingian won that battle, and when his wife's eyes glazed over in ecstasy, he picked her up and threw her over the railing of the balcony. Amazed, Rorie watched her soar though the air, flip herself over like a cat and land squarely on her feet. Without hesitation, the Merovingian dove after her.

The exiles were thrilled. They formed a circle around the couple, hooting and jeering as they beat one another senseless. Vampires, zombies, angels and aliens quickly abandoned their agent-snack to watch and place bets. A few pulled out cell-phone cameras to document the action.

"What's going on?" asked the bleeding agent. He craned his neck and pulled at the leather straps tying him down. "Hello?"

But nobody seemed to be listening. With no other alternative, he turned to a collared transvestite who was chained to a nearby go-go cage.

"Greetings, creature of the night," he said in as friendly a salutation that he could manage under the circumstances. "My designation is Brown. As you can see I'm in a bit of trouble – but I assure you there has been some mistake. You see, I'm the very useful program that killed the Witch. Obviously, I can serve a greater purpose than mere alimentary nourishment for the code-eaters."

The dainty, platinum-haired man sucked in his lower lip and pulled at his shackles. Mascara ran down his cheeks in aqueous grey bolts. "It's not easy having a good time," he said empathetically. "Even smiling makes my face ache."

"Indeed." Brown scowled and cocked his head to the side. "If your fellow exiles are hungry, may I suggest my colleague, Johnson? He is quite useless."

The transvestite inched closer and whispered, "Is he as beautiful as you are? Does he… _smell_ as wonderful as you do?"

"Johnson and I were programmed without scent subroutines," Brown replied. He added as an afterthought, "Smith wore cologne."

"Oh?"

"Hugo Boss. He claimed it improved his kill ratio."

"How _fascinating_." The young man smiled sweetly. "My name is Antoinette. But you can call me Ani."

The conversation came to an abrupt end as Persephone sprinted by with a raging flambé torch. Her husband formed a fist and drove it straight through the flames to punch her in the face. Awkward in the clingy evening gown and glittering bodice, she accomplished a backwards summersault, landing in an elegant pose, like a ninja ready to pounce. The Merovingian smirked, extended his hand, and gestured for her to _bring it on._

In deliberate hops, she shuffled left, then right, her mesmerizing chest bouncing in what seemed like slow-motion. When his eyes drifted south in a moment of shattered concentration, she levitated and kicked him into a marble pillar. Enraged, he flew back at her, sending them both crashing to the ground, crawling through the rubble, laying waste to everything in their path until, for no ostensible reason, they simply stopped.

Brown struggled to get a better view, but the exiles had crowded around the husband and wife, intrigued and amused by this spontaneous display of conjugal violence. _What's going on? What are they doing? What's happening?_ they asked each other. Nobody had an answer. _Post it on YouTube,_ someone suggested.

Antoinette had a better view than Brown. As the scene played out, he narrated to the agent. Persephone and the Merovingian were on the floor, staring at each other in the most peculiar way. Persephone was horrorstruck. The Merovingian was panicking. She began to scream. He tried to stop her. When it became clear he was not going to be successful, the Merovingian looked around at the exiles, and began to scream as well.

It was then – as Brown adopted the most galvanizing expression of sincere confusion – that the leather-clad young program could no longer contain himself. Skillful and fluid, he freed himself from his chains and cage and pounced upon the object of his desire.

Above the spreading anarchy and blood-curdling shrieks, Brown closed his eyes tight and screamed louder than anyone.

* * *

000000

* * *

When Rorie awoke, she was curled into the fetal position on her kitchen table, and there were sautéed spiders all over the floor. Pyro could be seen scuttling amongst the remains, scavenging her cooked children into a hidden place under the stove. 

Rorie hurried to her feet and gathered as many spiders as she could find into her pockets. She then rushed into her bedroom to check the time.

"Aww, shit!" She sounded like her father but she didn't care. "Aww, _shit_."

Snatching up her personal recorder, she spoke tremulously into the mike. "Personal log, October thirty-first, 9:01 pm. I just woke up from a fainting spell following some kind of… psychotic episode. I think I lost about two hours. For the sake of future reference, I'm going to record the details of the experience as accurately as I can…

"At about seven o'clock, I fried up the spiders with the intention to give them out to children as candy. In retrospect, I admit that this was a mistake. My… my theory at this time is that the combination of the progeny and the theobromine in the flavoring elixir generated a compound with highly hallucinogenic properties, perhaps similar in structure to lysergic acid diethylamide, LSD, or its related structure, valic acid deoxytriethylamide, VDT. It would appear the compound is addictive, as I'm experiencing a sharp craving for chocolate. I'm going to proceed directly to fleet medical for a full physiological, psychological, neurological, toxicological, hematological, and urological analysis."

Rorie stopped the recording and leaned back in her chair, trying to recall anything else about the experience that might be significant to her later. "The dream I experienced was… bizarre," she commented. "Although several details stand out to me as clear manifestations of subconscious aggression, insecurity, and sexual frustration, I fear that only deep Freudian, and perhaps even Jungian analysis will be needed to understand its deepest implications. I should think, at least a year of the best professional therapy money can buy." Rorie sat pensively for a moment. "I postulate… my parents will not be pleased."

It was then that she remembered the phone call, if there really had been a phone call. She booted up her computer and logged onto to the military communications network, somewhat surprised when she discovered that, in fact, she had new voicemail sent care of command automated services at 700 hours. Sender, Nebuchadnezzar. No subject, only audio. She clicked play.

"Hi, Rorie – it's Mom. I just wanted to check in, see how your holiday is going. Your Dad and I are working hard out here, fighting the aliens. There are a lot of them this time so it will probably take all night…"

Her father's voice hollered from some distance, "Little fuckers are all over me, Trin! You'd better get in here!"

"You idiot. I'm editing that out."

Rorie rolled her eyes as the message dissolved into a strange frequency of background static. She adjusted the settings on her computer to clear it up. What she heard next sent a shiver down her spine.

"My God!"her mother's voice exclaimed._ "_What's happening!... What's happening! What's happening! What's happening! What's happening! What's happening!"

The audio skipped, over and over again, repeating the last words in an eerie rhythm. Finally, the cycle was broken and everything that followed was grunts, struggle, chaos and shrieks for help. It seemed to go on forever before it was over – cut off abruptly at sixty-one and a half seconds.

**End of message. Save to archive? YES. NO.**

Then, suddenly, everything went dark, and everything went quiet.

* * *


	8. 1006001

* * *

100**6**001

* * *

Knight loved blackouts… especially blackouts on Halloween. But a blackout in the middle of a backstage Rocky Horror party? He didn't know whether to be thrilled or terrified. 

Luckily, he had brilliant survival instincts. Save the women. Huddle as many scantily-dressed girls around you as possible, and whisper comforting thoughts into their ears. If necessary, use them as a human shield against the wierdos and the perverts. Accidentally touch as much as you dare. Candles would help. Cocktails would be excellent.

"Ladies, to my dressing room!" he announced heroically. "Dr. Furtur gives special priority to the most frightened and uhm… _vulnerable_."

The crowd chuckled and hooted at the suggestion, and several enthusiastic volunteers squealed dramatically. "Oh, Knight! Save us!"

Far be it for him to abandon maidens in distress. He grabbed two decorative candelabra and led the way. "I see you all shiver with _antici_---!" he laughed. "Come on! _Antici_---!"

"Say it!" came the collective reply.

"---_pation_!"

Girls piled onto his couch and perched on the edges of his dressing table. "Is it the dark that's to blame for your trembling, my dear?" he whispered to the one closest to him. She smiled like a vampire who'd just spotted her next meal. He liked that (his neck hadn't been nibbled in weeks). Knight set the candles down and touched her hand. "No, I think… you _like_ the dark," he mumbled onto her bare shoulder. "The question is, do you also like… _The__Knight_?"

"I'm Charmed," she said, offering an ebony hand covered in white henna. The elaborate swirls and tribal designs stretched all the way to her elbow. "That's a name," she specified, "not a compliment."

In a gesture he considered supremely classy, Knight kissed her wrist. "_Enchanté_."

"French?"

"_Mais, oui__mademoiselle_. _C'est la langue d'amour."_

She scoffed. He asked her if he'd seen her somewhere before. She shook her head. He asked her if it hurt when she fell from heaven. She laughed. He asked her what her sign was. She said Pisces, and asked him his. He told her he had no idea because he didn't believe in that astrology crap but was hoping that if he asked her about her sign, she'd think he was sensitive and open-minded. "Did it work?" he asked. "Or am I just making a gigantic ass out of myself?"

She thought about it, and told him to get her a drink. That was all the encouragement Knight needed. "Wait right here, Pisces," he said. "Be right back."

The drink of the hour was a sweet ruby wine – unofficially called _The Blood of The One. _Traditionally, it was served in clubs with satirical flat wafers and its (much stiffer) sister beverage, a sapphire shot of moonshine rimmed with salt called _Trinity's Kiss. _

Knight returned with the rich, red concoction for the lady and a glass of sparkling water for himself. The water was tinted pink, and sizzled around flakes of shaved ice. It carried the sweet fragrance of flowers.

"A _Virgin Rorie_?" his date asked. "_That's_ your drink?"

"I'm keeping my head clear," he said. "So later we can do some math."

"Math?"

"Yeah." He clinked his glass against hers and smiled his most charming smile. "You plus me, baby. _You_... plus _me_."

* * *

0000000

* * *

With her flashlight beam whizzing a shaky pattern along the walls, Rorie ran through the dark tunnel that led to the Fringe Theatre. The Back Door, as it was called, was thematically marked with a sign, _Enter At Your Own Risk!!!_ She pulled on the oversized gothic knocker and darted forward, finding herself staring down the barrel of a gun. 

"Ticket, please."

The black sunglasses and crisp suit sent a chill down her spine. Behind him, five additional Smith clones (all in high heels) were cracking their knuckles and straightening each others' ties.

Rorie slapped the water pistol away and showed her ID. "Don't _ever_ do that to me again."

The sneer was palpable. "Hmm. I _see_," he purred melodically, his eyebrows arching as he gave her a thorough once-over. "Well, I think you'd better come inside, _Miss_ Anderson."

Rorie indignantly pushed her way through, into the glowing nebula of shisha smoke and candlelight. She called out over the din, squeezing into a crowd of creatures unimaginable. Faces floated by like dreams, some beatific, others nightmarish, as if heaven and hell had finally put their differences aside, all for the sake of one incredible party. Good, evil, amoral, asexual- it was all the same as long as you could dance.

Unfortunately for Rorie, that one prerequisite left her out. Awkward and uncertain, she navigated a path through the raging mosh-pit, shouting Knight's name. She used her flashlight to find her way, which didn't go over well with the nocturnal fringe of Zionist society. Trying to explain to them that it was okay for her to interrupt the party because she was The Daughter of The One on a very important mission didn't seem to help. She was practically chased into Knight's dressing room, where her reception was no better. Girls in lingerie glared at her cattily. In the center of it all was Knight himself, dressed in full costume for the show – heels, fishnet hosiery, panties and a corset - bending over a woman tied to a table.

"All this self-expression is making me thirsty!" he cried. "And _you_, hold still."

The young woman, wearing almost nothing and bound by her wrists and ankles with measuring-cord, giggled voraciously. Knight was painting her chocolate-colored tummy with ivory swirls, whimsical zig-zags, and Egyptian-inspired hieroglyphs. In the middle was his phone number with the message, _will U B my Knightingale? _

"Oh, my God!" Rorie shouted. (He should be shot for that line.)

"I said hold still!"

"It tickles!"

"You just wait until I get to the _really_ ticklish parts."

"You're a pig. And write down your email, too."

"I can't do this without a drink. Another Virgin Rorie! _Garçon_! _Garçon_!"

Rorie tapped him (not very gently) on the shoulder. "_Excuse_ me!"

Knight's head snapped up. "Ah! In the flesh – and what _lovely_ flesh it is, too! Ladies and gentlemen, meet my assistant, Columbia! Alright, hon, shine that flashlight over here so I can see what I'm doing." But as he studied her face his smile faded. "The _drink_, Rors. I was talking about the drink. I didn't mean anything by it."

"It's not that," she said. "I need to talk to you. Something's happened. Something bad."

He hesitated, mouth open and brow furrowed, until their eyes met and some kind of basal comprehension seemed to dawn. "Yeah, of course," he mumbled, turning to untie the girl's wrists. He apologized profusely and told her to 'call him' as he practically shoved her out of the room, gesturing for everyone else to clear out as well. There was some grumbling and groaning, and someone commented that they were being ousted so that Knight could have a quickie before the show. "It must be true love," someone said rather loudly, "because he already had a way hotter one on the slab."

Knight growled something Rorie couldn't make out before slamming the door and locking it. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "I don't even know that guy."

She bit her lip and fought back tears.

"No, don't cry. Look, it's dark in here. He just couldn't see you clearly. I mean, you're way hotter than-"

"Oh for God's sake!" she exclaimed. "Can you be _serious_ for a moment! Are you even _capable_? Do you think that I care if some moron thinks I'm as attractive as some no-class, gutter-trash whore whose only assets she puts on display for community consumption! Do you! I take it as a compliment!"

"Okay…" He folded his arms. "You're upset. So I won't take offense to all that mean stuff you just said about my not being capable of seriousness. Suffice it to say, words _hurt_."

So he was blaming her mood. That was good. Because the truth was she was still a little high on that spider juice, and she suspected it was affecting her ability to censure her language. But she couldn't tell him that she accidentally drugged herself on Halloween candy. She'd never hear the end of it.

"It's Mom and Dad," she said. "They're in trouble and nobody will help me."

Rorie told him about the message she'd received just before the blackout, and about how she'd gone to the control office to report what she'd heard, but the entire communications wing was upside down with the sudden power loss. When she spoke with the director, he used every available backup generator to run the automated services archive, which showed that there was no such message received, or sent to her at 700 hours, or any other time. Moreover, she was informed that Trinity had just recently called into command to report that everything was fine, and that for the rest of the night she and her husband would be blocking incoming calls, so not to worry if they didn't answer.

Rorie left out the part about her bizarre dream. She also left out the part where she was questioned at command headquarters about her bloodshot eyes and motor impairment, and that when she was asked to submit to a drug test, she ran away.

"Anyway, when they wouldn't listen to me I came here," she said. "I need your help."

"But automated services has no memory of the call?"

"All I can think is that the power surge wiped out the record."

"Maybe… maybe this is one of their Halloween pranks. You know how Trin is."

"I know what I heard, Knight. It wasn't a joke."

"Well… what…" Knight ran his hand through his hair. "Say you're right. What do you want to do about it?"

She stared at him, trying to find the least insane way to summarize her plan. "I need you to help me borrow a hovercraft."

"What? You want to _steal_ a hovercraft?"

"Have you forgotten who I am? I said _borrow_. This is Zion. The Daughter of The One doesn't _steal_ anything. I practically own the city anyway."

"Rorie, we can't…"

She reached out and took his hands. "You _have_ to believe me. They're in trouble. I'm certain of it. _Please_."

Unable to look away, Knight gazed into her eyes – the eyes he knew so well. This moment, dear Readers, is was what storytellers call a moment of truth. Because in Rorie's beautiful brown plea for help he saw something… something that he'd never seen before.

"Have you been smoking up?"

"Don't be ridiculous! The Daughter of The One doesn't _smoke up _anything! Honestly, Knight. I'm _insulted_."

And that was that. It was like a binding curse. Not only was it bad luck to separate the One Family on Halloween, apparently it was impossible.

With only two hours until show time, Knight searched through the party and found his grotesquely overweight understudy. He shoved the script in his hands, said a prayer that the spare corset could withstand the pressure, and snuck out the rear exit with Rorie. They took an emergency lift to the dock and crept through the pitch-black shipyard.

* * *

0000000

* * *

Under the belly of _The Looking Glass_, Knight pried a cargo hatch open with the spike of his heel. When he and Rorie reached the cockpit, she seized the captain's seat. 

"What are you doing?" Knight whispered.

"I'm buckling my safety belt," Rorie replied, strapping herself in. "Are you aware of the statistics on hovercraft fatalities-"

"_I'm_ driving," he hissed. "Move over."

"I most certainly will not-" "-Move over right now or I'm-" "-move anywhere. This was my idea and I'm-" "-going back to the Fringe and you can find your own way in the-" "-driving. I've seen _you_ drive. We'll be lucky to-" "-sewers. Hey, I'm a damn good pilot! _You're_ the lousy pilot!" "-get there alive with you at the helm. Oh, stop it we don't have time to-" "It took you four attempts to get your license. You-" "-argue. What folderol! That judge was a sexist prig, and you know it!" "-SUCK!"

Her jaw dropped. "How _dare_ you tell me that I suck! _You_ suck."

"Shit. _Move, now."_

"I told you I'm not moving."

"No, I mean _move_." He pointed to gate three, which was opening for a change in the outer guard. "That's our chance. Go, _now!_"

Rorie fumbled inexpertly with the controls, her first attempt to maneuver a hovercraft since scraping the Neb's port side on a family retreat, two years ago. She was doing just fine until Knight started yelling over her shoulder, using colorful obscenities and unintelligible pilot lingo. He distracted her from the considerable task of keeping all the pedals and handles straight in her mind. Right. Left. Up. Down. Faster. Slower. It was simple enough if he would just shut up.

"Did you hear me? I said…" Rorie shoved him away as the ship lurched to a precarious sixty-degree angle. "… shut up! Everything's under control."

"_This is Control to the LG. Stand down immediately. We repeat, the unauthorized, inebriated theft of a hovercraft is a criminal offense." _

"Inebriated!" she exclaimed, snatching up the radio. "Excuse me, to _whom_ am I speaking?"

"Rorie, give me the radio."

She slapped his hand away and struggled to keep the ship steady. "This is Aurora. _The_ Aurora. And I assure you, I am in complete control of all my faculties, and nobody is stealing anything. Now, I am just _borrowing_ this ship, which I'll remind you my mother built while she was pregnant with _me_. So technically I helped. And I am perfectly within my rights to borrow it. I'm very grateful and will return it when I'm done."

"_Whoever you are, you will stand down immediately or we will use force." _

"You wouldn't dare!" Rorie put the radio down and looked at Knight. "They wouldn't dare!"

They were fewer than one hundred feet from the gate, which was closing as quickly as the machinery would allow. Two APU's were standing guard, poised to open fire.

So this was it, Knight thought. This was how he was going to die. As he stared down the barrels of the plasma rifles straight ahead, a picture flashed before his eyes. It was that beautiful woman strapped to his tailoring slab… whose name he couldn't remember. She was wearing a black veil, weeping inconsolably at his funeral. She could have been _the one_, he thought. She could have been the future Mrs. Knight K. Knightley of the Zionist Order of Knights, mother of Captain Knight Jr. and twins Knightilda and Knightessa, neurosurgeons and part-time supermodels.

"Knight!" Rorie yelled. "Help!"

She'd shut her eyes and was blindly driving the ship towards the steadily closing gate. The APUs held their ground as a final warning crackled over the radio. It was too late to stop… too late to think. Knight reached over and pushed her head down, snatching the controls. With one swift yank, he flew them up, as high as the ship could go. Just as they reached the peak of the dock, he cut main power and yelled for her to hold on. The pads died, and as they fell in an eerily quiet, sickeningly smooth freefall, he activated the short-range EMP.

The wave rippled over the tower and guards, and as the discharge cleared, Knight made out their escape route. He rebooted the engine, which stalled. Once, twice, and on the third time he imitated Trinity's classic kick-and-curse, using his last good heel.

It may have been the most spectacular maneuver he'd accomplished outside a simulator. As the pads buzzed to life, _The Looking Glass_ lifted with a thrilling lurch-and-snap, clearing gate three with less than a foot of space around their upper and lower dishes. The close-range repulsion pushed them into an ascending support-line with the force of two like-polar super magnets, and as Rorie screamed, Knight yelled out in exhilarated victory. He was dizzy from the G-forces, his heart pounding against the strangling confines of his glittery corset.

"Did you see that!" he hooted. "Did you see that, Rorie! Jesus Christ, they should give me a medal for that!"

She had her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed against his back. "I'm going to throw up."

Typical. He just broke the sound barrier and Rorie was too nauseous to appreciate it. He took her hand and squeezed. "You'll be fine. Cummon. Move over and let me sit."

This time she didn't put up a fight, wobbling over to the copilot's seat with a shaky groan. She slumped back in the chair and wiped sweat from her brow. "You, sir," she panted, "have _moxy_."

"Oh, it was nothing," he lied. "Piece of cake. Trin and I do crazy stuff like this on missions all the time." He reached up to switch on the computer but his hand shook so violently he returned it to the controls. "So… where to?"

"I have their last known coordinates. Bearing 31 mark 46 mark 66."

He raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

"Why?"

"That's the outer-rim badlands. Otherwise known as… well, _make-out central_." Knight pictured the barren ruins of rusted pipeline, frozen shrapnel, and dead sentinels. "Damn romantic."

"What's your point?"

"Well, it's sewer myths, you know. They say the badlands are haunted on Halloween."

"Don't tell me you believe in that stuff."

"Hey, I'm not the one thinks her dad is possessed by the Devil or ghosts or whatever…"

"I didn't say _ghosts_…" Rorie looked out at the sewage pipes, zooming by in the orange glow of their hoverpads. She'd never admit it to anyone, but she was afraid of the sewers. She had her mother's war stories to blame – or to thank – for that.

"Rorie?"

"I don't believe in ghosts," she whispered, pulling her legs up to her chest. "There are worse things out here than ghosts."

* * *


	9. 2001002

* * *

200**1**002

* * *

When Knight was fifteen, he built Trinity a plasma-based flame-thrower for her birthday. It took him five months of hard work and scavenging of the shipyard for spare parts, all justified by the end result of ensuring her well-being. That is, Knight didn't like the idea of Trinity's being out in the sewers with the sentinels, and only _Neo_ to protect her. Sure, he was The One (whatever that meant), but this was a _flame-thrower_. As he explained it to Rorie at the time, it would have to do until he was old enough to serve on the ship and see to the captain's safety personally. Besides, he'd overheard that Neo was getting her a pair of earrings. _Pfft!_ Even back then, Knight knew that you don't woo a woman like Trinity with jewelry.

On the day he was to give it to her, Knight lugged the impractically sized, ridiculously heavy weapon all the way from his dorm to Trinity's apartment, where he wanted to demonstrate its use for Rorie, who was not convinced the project was a good idea (after all, sentinels weren't flammable). But she was just a dumb girl who didn't understand that the plasma was to kill the squiddie and the flames were for dramatic effect.

She was told to watch his demonstration from behind the couch, wearing a pair of protective goggles, and please, to hold her applause until the very end, thank you.

To this day, seven years later, Knight never knew exactly what went wrong. He remembered clearing furniture out of the way and then placing the scale-model sentinel he'd brought with him onto a metal platform. He'd run the simulation a hundred times before with perfect results (100 complete annihilation of the target _and_ the platform), but the next thing he knew, the carpet was on fire and he had no eyebrows.

He suffered second-degree burns to his hands, but the pain was nothing compared to the look on Trinity's face when she walked though the door to see him and Rorie shuttling bowls of water back and forth from the kitchen sink to the carpet. It was the kind of look that made him want to crawl back into his pod, plug himself in, and curl into the fetal position. It was the only time she ever really _yelled_ at him. It was so bad, he actually ran away, and it took a visit from Trinity a week later to convince him that he hadn't been disowned.

_But if you _ever_ do something stupid like that again, Knight… _

He wondered if stealing a hovercraft and pulsing the Zionist guard qualified as _something stupid like that_.

"If I'm wrong, I'll tell her it was my idea, okay?" Rorie said. "Don't worry."

But he was worried. After an hour of nothing to do but navigate the sewers and think about what he'd done, Knight was beginning to wish he'd never left the Fringe. The more he went over it in his mind, the less Rorie's story made sense. On the other hand, he could not ignore his instincts that something was wrong. He and Rorie had sent out multiple highest-priority hails to the Neb since leaving, none of which were answered. Knight found it hard to believe Trinity would disengage her emergency communications systems – as far as he knew, they couldn't be turned off without a total power shut-down. She was anal about things like that.

"Send it again with a wider bandwidth," Rorie suggested. "Try non-standard frequencies."

"I've done that," he answered. "The only plausible conclusion is that they're in black-out mode. Maybe they ran into sentinels and are waiting it out."

"Sentinels?" She practically cowered at the word. "You're scanning for sentinels, right?"

"Yes, of _course_ I am, Rorie." He confirmed their position on the navigation array. "Anyway, we'll find out in a few minutes. We're nearly there."

The sewers crept by as he slowed their approach and Rorie kept her eyes on the blackness straight ahead. She was almost nauseous – it was the return of her childhood fears. She used to imagine the most tragic scenarios – the Neb would be ripped to shreds, or be stranded without power on the unforgiving surface until the elements froze her parents to death. She used to give Niobe so much trouble if her parents were even a few hours late picking her up after a mission – she'd pace by the door, or weep with worry. And Morpheus' speeches about all the terrifying situations her parents had already survived did little to ease her anxiety.

Now she was nearly certain they were dead. It was an irrational instinct, founded on nothing except the growing pit of dread in her stomach. Nevertheless, she was already visualizing how they would find the bodies. Her mind was such a tangle of emotion and gruesome imagery that when the ghostly form of a hovercraft materialized from the shadows, she wasn't sure weather she was relieved or mortified. She knew she was confused. The lights were on, and not a sentinel in sight.

Then she was angry. "But… why haven't they responded to our hails!" she exclaimed.

Knight frowned. "I don't like this. This isn't good."

"Set us down close."

He found a level space roughly fifty meters away and made a gentle landing. In fact, it was a little _too_ gentle for his liking; when the pads shut down there was absolute silence. Rorie didn't move. He reached for the radio, sent a brief message to the Neb and waited. When he received no reply, he turned to her and said, "Maybe we should just walk over and _knock_."

She pulled the emergency flashlights from under the seats and handed him one. "Let's go."

It was not an easy trip over shrapnel and pipeline, especially for Knight, who was still wearing heels. Rorie took his hand and helped him over obstacles, though she was wobbly herself on the uneven terrain. The Neb loomed like a giant monster above them, and when they reached the belly hatch Knight pulled it open and told her to stay behind him. "I'll go first."

The lower decks of the ship were dark, and rather than call out Trinity's name, Knight decided to stay quiet, though he wasn't sure what he was afraid of. All he knew was that nothing here was as it should be. The ship was decorated with candles and paprika, and from somewhere up above, music was playing. He stopped breathing and tried to make out the lyrics. Piano and electric guitar produced a familiar melody of a song called Superheroes.

…_and crawling on the planet's face  
Some insects called the human race  
Lost in time, lost in space  
And meaning…  
Meaning..._

This segued into the Rocky Horror theme:_ Science Fiction, Double Feature._ Eerily, he was dressed the part, and so was Rorie. She quietly came up behind him as footsteps approached from the other direction. Knight was suddenly inspired to search for weapon, but there was no time. He snatched off his heel and held it up above his head, spike out.

"Who's there?" hollered a voice. "Hello?"

Knight kept the shoe elevated. "Trin?"

"… Yes."

She emerged from the captain's cabin, a hooded figure in long blue robes. It took Knight a moment to categorize her attire – it was the prayer beads around her neck that finally spoke to him. She was costumed as a nun, with a few notable deviations from the norm. The whip in her hand, for instance, was not convent standard-issue.

His mouth went dry. Instantly, he understood what he'd interrupted. As Trinity stared at him icily, he knew this was the end. Nobody caught the captain in the act of a sex game and lived to tell the tale.

"What are you doing here?" she asked softly, after an agonizingly long pause. "Will one of you tell me what's going on?"

Rorie was the first to reply. "Well, I got your message and it sounded as if something terrible had happened."

"No," she said, unreadable in her brevity. "I'm fine."

"Well… then why didn't you reply to any of our hails?" Rorie demanded. "Why didn't you answer us?"

"I've been..." She looked down at the whip in her hands. "Busy."

"But, Mom… Knight and I were worried sick. You could have at least responded to our messages. Where's Dad?"

"He's resting." She closed the cabin door behind her. "It's been a long night."

Rorie opened her mouth but no sound came out. She looked to Knight with her outrage as if to ask him for support. He wouldn't dare say a thing. Trinity was staring at him again, her eyes drifting down over his barely-clothed body. Her lip curled, and he went numb with embarrassment.

"Knight," she said in that same unreadable tone. "Now that you're here, I've been having some trouble with the… the, uhm…"

"Yes?"

"Computer-thing," she said, gesturing up to the core. "Maybe you could help me with it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She smiled at him, then frowned at Rorie. "And as for _you_, I'm very disappointed. Go somewhere and think about what you've done."

"But, Mom--"

"I don't want to hear it. You had no business coming out here. I don't even want to _see_ you until we get back to Zion. Is that understood?"

For the second time, Rorie was speechless. Spinelessly, Knight held his tongue. With a satisfied nod, the captain turned to climb the ladder to the core, leaving them in silent awe of what had just happened.

Finally, Rorie whispered to him, "What the hell was _that_?"

"_That_ was exactly what I thought we'd find. I told you we shouldn't have come. She's probably planning to strangle me with that whip. She sent you away because she doesn't want any witnesses."

"Something's not right here. I'm going to wake up Dad and ask him about--"

Knight grabbed her by the shoulders. "For God's sake, don't. Look, I'll plead our case to Trin. I'll clear everything up, okay? Just sit tight and don't make this worse."

Rorie looked ready to argue with him, but a soft voice interrupted them from the core, "Oh, Knight?" Trinity called. "Are you coming? I could use a pair of _strong_ hands."

"There, _that_," Rorie said. "Does that even sound like her to you?"

_Only in my dreams_, was the phrase that first entered Knight's mind, though he knew better than to say it. He didn't know what to think. Maybe he _was_ dreaming. Everything here felt like a dream. Or the beginning of a nightmare.

He used to have nightmares in which he and Trinity got married, but then she grew fangs and ate him on the honeymoon.

"Knight, are you listening to me!"

"Yes, I'm sorry. You're right. She's acting weird. But you won't make it any better by dragging your dad into it."

She frowned in a way that meant defeat. "Fine. I'm going to the boiler room to get some old uniforms and blankets."

"Good idea."

"Knight." They jumped at Trinity's holler from above. "I'm _waiting_."

Wasn't that what dream-Trinity had said to lure him to his death? It was. He was certain of it. It was some sort of omen. Knight turned to ask Rorie to go up with him, not to leave him alone with… _her_… but his friend was already on her way down the corridor.

"_Knight?_" He nearly screamed as the voice came closer- this time just overhead. Trinity stared down at him and grinned. "Come on, now. I won't _bite_."

* * *


	10. 2002002

* * *

200**2**002

* * *

To be fair, Knight hadn't had that dream in a very long time. Years. Months, maybe. It tended to creep up on him, just when he thought he was over it. He'd fall asleep, innocent and unsuspecting, and there she'd be – Trinity, absurdly dressed in a sparkling white wedding gown, complete with veil and bouquet. He – the dashing groomsman, would take her arm and walk down the aisle as everyone cheered and threw rose-petals. Sometimes, Neo could be seen sneering and pouting in the last pew. Knight would be a gracious winner in his dream, not wanting to rub it in more than absolutely necessary. So when Trinity would try to pull him close for a kiss he'd demure, 'for Neo's sake, Trin. We don't want to make the poor guy cry.' Then she'd tell him what a good person he was, to be so considerate. That's why I love you Knight, she'd say. Not only are you the hottest guy in Zion, you're also sensitive.

And then, the moment of truth. By candlelight, in a honeymoon suite festooned with red silk and redder roses (when he woke up, Knight was always embarrassed by the cheesiness of it all), Trinity would call him to bed. He'd approach her nervously, wondering at the newly-sprouted set of fangs hanging over her bottom lip. But he'd already said his vows – he couldn't back down just because of an overbite. He loved her anyway. That's the kind of guy he was - sensitive. But the closer he'd get, the longer and shaper they'd become, and the less welcoming his bride seemed to be. He'd end up trapped under the sheets beside her, pinned down by razor-sharp fingernails, his nervousness turned to terror as she impaled the skin of his neck like a rabid vampire. Like some mythical, savage beast she'd tear him to pieces, delivering him, screaming and thrashing, into his (real) bed. Sometimes, he wouldn't be alone in his real bed and would have to explain to his real, but soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend why he'd been moaning his boss' name in his sleep.

Knight was even harder-pressed to explain it to himself. The dream troubled him so much he'd asked the Oracle about it, but she laughed so hard he couldn't understand a word of her explanation. Finally, she'd given him a cookie and told him that the day Trinity ever shows any interest in him would be the day that pigs fly.

The truth was, there had been a time when he'd thought that he was in love with Trinity – well, as much as a thirteen-year-old boy could possibly be in love with anyone. What did he know? If it was not love, then it was the closest Knight had ever come to feeling the real thing. He used to sit up in his bunk at the orphanage, writing her poetry that he'd never end up giving her. All of the poems were limericks, because a limerick was only poem he'd ever learned how to write.

_I love a captain named Trinity  
For her I have great affinity  
She's beautiful and strong  
And even though it's wrong  
I wish she'd take my virginity._

He wasn't proud of the poems. But that's the kind of guy he was – the kind of guy who would write her poetry. He'd never heard of _Neo_ writing her poetry. Knight had asked him once, and Neo didn't even know what a limerick was. Pretty stupid for a Messiah. He'd wanted to ask him just what qualified him to be The One in the first place, if he didn't even know how to write a poem. But it was no use. Knight never had the courage to confront him. He could only stand by and watch the woman he loved be improperly romanced by another man (her husband, but that didn't make it any more bearable). Trinity couldn't have known it, but with every kiss, every whisper, every caress that she and Neo had thought had gone unnoticed (they'd never gone unnoticed; Knight used to watch them obsessively), she'd broken his young, aching little heart.

The memory still stung. But it was ten years later, and Knight had long ago convinced himself that he'd outgrown the infatuation. Somewhere along the way, his deep, nearly excruciating devotion had changed into something more comfortable - his adoration was like a son for a mother. Or at least, a son for a stepmother whose perfume occasionally set him off-balance.

One thing was certain – if it wasn't him, then _something_ was off-balance tonight. His legs were like gelatin as he climbed the ladder to the core, and his palms sweaty on the rungs. When he reached the top and saw Trinity disrobing in the shadows, he nearly fell over. She was wearing a general's uniform underneath her robe, obviously modified to show off her body. It was turtle-necked and long sleeved, but so tight it could have been painted onto her.

She set the whip aside and pulled a pair of gloves from her back pocket. "You've been very bad," she said, looking over her shoulder. "You know that."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Showing up here uninvited... Why would you do that?"

"I'm sorry. Trin, we were worried about you. Rorie came to me and I… I just wanted to be sure you were safe."

"That's… sweet." Her expression turned thoughtful. "We are close, aren't we? You and I? I'm not wrong in thinking that?"

He stumbled for an answer, taken completely off-guard. "Uhm… yes. I think we are, kinda close."

"I can trust you, can't I?"

"Of course." He tried to read her face, but her expression was alien to him. Her eyes shone in the gloom like two diamonds, and he saw what could conceivably be the beginnings of tears. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Did something happen?"

"I sent Rorie away because I didn't want to upset her…"

"You're scaring me, Trin. What is it?"

She looked away sharply as he heard a soft, wet sound, like her tongue detaching from the roof of her mouth. Was she crying? He held his breath and waited. When she spoke again her voice was tiny and quivering. "It's Neo," she said. "It's everything."

His instinct was to hold her, but he didn't have the nerve. "Neo?" he prompted. "What happened?"

"He's not well," she said. "He's not the man I married. Knight, I think he's gone mad."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I thought if we had this vacation it might change him, but I was wrong. It's only gotten worse. I can't keep it a secret anymore. I have to tell someone."

They were so close now she was whispering. He didn't touch her but said softly, "What?"

"He hit me. We had a fight and… he tried to strangle me."

Knight couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. What she claimed was simply impossible. He was so confident of this fact that he said it aloud. "That's impossible."

She slowly unbuttoned the front of her uniform, exposing black and blue bruising around her neck. "He tried to kill me," she said. "He's insane."

The bruises were fresh. Knight tried to come to another explanation – anything but the once Trinity assured him was the truth - but he could find none. She began to weep. He had no recourse but to put his arms around her. Trinity's body melted into him, her barely-covered breasts pressing onto his barely-covered chest. "Why…" he was too stunned to form a coherent thought. "Why would he do that?"

"He found out." She pulled back and spoke against his lips. "He found out about us."

"Us?"

Trinity caressed his cheek. "You know. You must know. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me you feel it, too."

"I don't know what you…" He stopped talking. Her hand was caressing his left buttock. Once, twice in a circle. With a little pinch, she brought him back to consciousness; he caught her wrist and held it hard. "Stop it," he said. "This isn't real."

"It can be," she said. "If that's what you want. It's what I want."

"You're the one who's insane." He gently, firmly detached her from his body. He saw in her eyes something hungry and wicked. "What's going on?" he demanded. "Who _are_ you?"

* * *


	11. 2003002

* * *

200**3**002

* * *

Rorie worked quickly to collect the uniforms and blankets. Her mother left them piled on the boiler to keep them warm, which stood in a dark corner of the bowels of the Neb. The engines hummed behind her and bare bulbs cast sharp shadows and sickly yellow light through the room. Rorie told herself that she wasn't frightened, she was just in a hurry. She'd grown up playing hide-and-seek in the nooks and crannies of this ship – down here, nothing should be a mystery. But it all looked strange tonight, more sinister, as if the ship itself were angry.

As Rorie grabbed the last pair of slacks, a loud pop exploded from somewhere over her shoulder. A burst of light and cascades of sparks rained down on her. She screamed as the room went black. Running with her arms full, she sprinted toward the open hatch through which she came, guided by the triangular sliver of light pouring in from the loading bay. She didn't stop or look back until she arrived, slamming the door behind her, pressing her back against the metal and panting.

It was only a power surge, she told herself, feeling a mixture of terror and foolishness. She'd dropped some things along the way but had no intention of going back for them. At the end of the loading bay was a ladder, which she climbed to the quarter floor. At the top she was faced with a long corridor lit by a line of red flood lights. She stood still for a moment and listened to the eerie stillness, punctuated by a dull beat she could not identify. Part of her thought it might be the pulse of the ship, giving life and tempo to the vitriol which had followed her up from the belly of the beast. This idea, as irrational and silly as it was, unhinged her. Briskly, she marched to her parents' cabin door. The sound became louder, more hollow, tinny.

Rorie hesitated, remembering. For a moment, she wasn't a young woman but a child again, scurrying from her room to her parents' bed in the middle of the night, scared of some imaginary sentinels living in the closet. She'd slip under the covers and wedge herself between the two warm bodies, mindless of where and on whom her knees and elbows landed. Her mother complained, but her father, who had the patience of a saint, would hold her. How many this time, he'd ask? She'd give him a number. Three. Eighteen. Six hundred and twelve. Can you kill that many, Daddy? And his answer was always the same. I can kill five times that many, he'd say. Tomorrow, I'm going to go into that closet and kill every last one.

It was true that old habits were difficult to break. Rorie put the pile of clothing aside and knocked on the cabin door. "Dad?" she called softly. "Are you awake?"

He didn't reply, but the knocking became more pronounced. She couldn't tell if it was coming from inside. "Dad…?" Her hand trembled as she placed it on the knob. She pulled, but it was locked. Locked? She pulled at the wheel more urgently. "Dad!"

Her mother had locked the door, or her father had locked himself inside. She didn't like the implications of either possibility. Panic was setting in. She stopped herself from yelling to him, knowing that her mother would hear her. Instead, she ran to the mess hall for the master keys and was careful to be quiet about it. With shaking fingers, she manipulated the lock, opened the bedroom door and stepped into a puddle of blood.

Her father was mummified like a corpse, bound tightly in white sheets flowered with crimson handprints. He writhed like a worm – periodically knocking his head against the wall. His face was covered in his sweater and a pair of socks was stuffed into his mouth.

Rorie would have screamed were it not for a sudden bitterness that gurgled up her throat, into her mouth. She swallowed just in time, falling to her knees by her parents' bedside, fumbling with the gag and blindfold. Tears made her clumsy and slow.

What was he saying to her? He was saying something, but she wasn't listening. It looked as if he'd been stabbed. "Untie me. Untie me now. Hurry up. Do it," he said. "Hurry!"

"Don't move. You're hurt."

"Untie me."

"Dad, what's going on?" she cried. "What's _happening_?"

"Untie me now."

Rorie wanted more than anything to do as he said, but whoever had done this to him had used duct tape on his wrists and ankles. Rorie yanked open the first drawer in the bedside table and found a pair of scissors.

"_Yes_," he gasped. "That's a smart girl. Now cut me free."

Rorie poised the sharp blades at his wrists and hesitated. She looked at her father's bruised face. His eyes were all pupil and mad with agitation.

"Cut them!" he barked. "Do it. What are you waiting for?"

"Dad… I'm scared. Who did this? Did Mom do this? Why would she do this?"

He let out a harsh, short breath that sounded like impatience. But when he spoke his tone was softer. "Everything will be fine. I'll protect you. But first… you have to let Daddy _go_. Hurry or she'll get you. She's not right in the head."

"Who?"

"Your mother. She's gone crazy. You have to let me go before she comes down here and does the same thing to you."

"What? Why? What are you talking about?"

"It'll be okay. We'll take her to Zion and get her professional help. That's what we'll do. We'll help her."

Rorie heard footsteps descending from the core. They were fast and heavy, coming straight for them. Panicking, she cut through the tape at her father's wrists and ankles. When she finished, he sat up and took the scissors away, putting his arms around her. "Shhh, now," he whispered. "Don't cry. It'll all be over soon."

Rorie flinched as the scissor blade dug into her neck.

"Just don't scream," he said. "Don't you dare make a sound."

* * *


	12. 2004002

* * *

200**4**002

* * *

Knight was statuesque in his disbelief, frozen in the doorway only a few feet from where Neo stood with his daughter, her back pressed to his chest, his bloodied hand holding a blade to her neck. In the blue-grey gloom, the smudges on her skin were more aubergine than crimson, more black than red. A few parallel slits framed both edges of his weapon, scratches more than cuts, as if her attacker had conducted a series of tests to judge the delicacy of her neck. Rorie was trying to shrink back from contact, tears glistening in the corners of her almond-shaped eyes. They were wide and strangely alien in her panic, the faintly exotic slant of them exaggerated and unnatural. 

"Daddy, _please_. You're hurting me. _Please_," she begged. The voice, like the eyes, was foreign to him. It was not Rorie's voice – Knight had never heard Rorie beg for anything in her life. It struck him only now, he'd never seen her truly afraid of anything, or anyone, until this moment. Suddenly, it was as if they were strangers. He was detached and paralyzed.

The suggestion of triumph nuanced throughout Neo's face and posture qualified as sadistic. "I'll hurt her," he said, answering the unspoken challenge with chilling credibility. "I'll kill the little brat in a heartbeat if I have to."

Knight's hands lifted in a gesture of careful surrender. "It's fine," he answered. "Let's just calm down, okay? Calm down."

"Daddy--?"

"Shut up!" Rorie screeched when the tip of the scissor dug into her skin. Knight darted forward but Neo lurched back and held her tighter than ever. Rorie hissed her pain as a pool of blood gathered at the edge of the blade. "Think, boy!" Neo barked. "You move; she dies. It's a simple and inescapable law of the universe. Cause, and effect. Action… and _consequence_."

"What do you want?" Knight blurted helplessly. "What's going on here?"

"My wife," he said. "Where the hell is she?"

"She's…" Knight glanced over his shoulder. "I don't—"

"Do you hear me, woman!" Neo bellowed wildly. "This twisted little game of yours is over! I'm going to kill your playthings and then I'm going to kill you, unless you get down here right this moment!"

The three of them held their breath and the silence was deafening. Neo yelled that he was going to count to ten and then slit the girl's throat. Rorie began to cry. Knight couldn't stand it. As she sobbed and her father began his countdown, something in him changed. The impersonal and surreal fell away - this was Rorie, and she was his best and oldest friend. She was everything to him. He thought of doing something heroic, of strangling her assailant with his bare hands, of impaling him with his own weapon, but what could he do with the blade carving into her neck? He thought of turning to find Trinity but he didn't have the time. He was completely and utterly helpless, and his next instinct was to apologize to her for his uselessness. I'm so sorry, he said to her with his eyes. Neo, in the meantime, was down to number four.

Knight nearly got down onto his knees. "Please," he said, no longer caring how pathetic he must sound to Rorie. "Please, just let her go. I'll do whatever you want; just let her go. _Please_… don't do this."

"Three!"

"Knight!"

"I'll go get her. I'll go find her right now if you just let her go."

"Two!"

Knight cursed in futility. Again, Rorie choked his name. The pained squawk haunted him as he again looked to her, begging forgiveness. She was more urgent, as if she had something to say that went beyond angst-filled pleas. "Do it," she said. "If you don't he'll kill us both."

"One!"

Knight saw her elbow poised over a gash in Neo's ribcage and understood the plan instantly. Their eyes met; his indecision transformed into movement. Rorie's action was in synchrony - she struck her father in the chest, and Knight grabbed the wrist with the scissors. But as Rorie tried to scuttle away, there was a piercing scream; Neo made a fist in her hair and brutally yanked her down.

Knight saw her head snap back. He saw stars. He saw a slight grin on the older man's lips as he turned towards him, but Neo was never able to complete the rotation. Knight punched his face so hard he spun twice around before collapsing onto the floor.

Neo didn't get up. He didn't move at all. Rorie rushed to check his pulse. "He's unconscious," she said after a moment. "Knight… you knocked him out."

"Good."

His fist was throbbing as he knelt down and took Rorie's jaw in his last good hand. He wanted to examine the cut on her neck but she put her arms his shoulders and pulled him close, holding on as if to life itself. Knight had a notion to say something soothing, but in the end he just hugged her back, using every ounce of self-control to keep from crying himself. Rorie's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it against his chest, and her tears were so hot they burned his skin. He buried his nose in her hair and wanted never to let her go.

But where was Trinity?

The ship was deadly quiet, dark and cold beyond Rorie's aura of warmth and breathing. As the older one, and as the male, Knight felt responsible for making a wise, rational decision. But was it rational to feel that everything here – the sewers, Rorie's parents, even the Neb itself – meant to do them harm? Was it rational to think that somehow, they'd been cursed into some waking illusion? Was this madness? Was it hell?

When the intercom crackled to life, Knight caught his breath. "If you're still alive," was the message, "come and find me."

* * *


	13. 2005002

* * *

200**5**002

* * *

She was not hard to find. Trinity hadn't moved from the core, perched in the operator's chair, her fingers pressed into a sinister steeple below her chin. "You didn't kill him, did you?" she asked. "Because I'd be very… _upset_ if you had." 

Rorie was holding onto Knight's arm, standing slightly behind him. "Of course not. Mom, please. Tell me what's going on."

"Urgh!" Trinity threw her arms up in apparent frustration as she glared accusingly at Knight. "You haven't told her what's going on yet? Well, you are as useless as you are handsome." Then she spoke to Rorie. "They always are."

Rorie whispered to Knight, "What's she talking about?"

"She's psychotic," Knight replied. "Both of them. They've both gone crazy…" But he trailed off as Trinity smiled at him, raising an eyebrow as if to communicate an inside joke. Rorie demanded an explanation. "Rorie, they're not well," he murmured under his breath. "Maybe it's shell shock or something. She thinks she's someone that she's not."

"Who?"

"Oh God," Trinity moaned. "Will you tell her before I die of boredom? Honestly, you two are sucking all the fun out of this."

Knight tried to find some way of beginning. "Rorie... do you remember, from the stories Neo and Trin used to tell us, the exiled program who traffics in information? He likes to talk in a French accent? And his wife forced Neo to kiss him?"

"Forced him! Is that what he told you!" Trinity huffed. "Well, I've got news for you two kiddies. He _liked_ it."

"You mean…" Rorie scowled. "She thinks she's--"

"Persephone," provided Trinity with a self-admiring smile. "In the flesh. So to speak. And that vile creature below decks is my husband. I'm sorry for what trouble he's caused you. Sometimes he gets in a mood and--"

"See? She's delusional," Knight murmured. "And it gets worse. She has this idea that they all switched identities through some kind of…"

"Magic spell."

"Yes, thanks, Trin. I was getting to that part."

"The problem is I'm not _sure_ if it was a spell," Trinity went on casually. "These things are difficult to pin down. All I can say for sure is that one minute I was happily entertaining at one of our _intime soirees - _vampires, angels, ghosts, the usual Halloween degenerates that my husband calls business partners - and the next I'm here. In this… rather inadequate body. Honestly, I hardly even feel like a _woman_."

Knight narrowed his eyes.

"Well, anyway." She smiled and brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "It isn't so bad I suppose. _You_ seem to like it."

"Trin," he sighed. "Please, you need help. We need to go back to Zion-"

"It's so strange," Rorie interrupted suddenly. "Mom… I mean…" she spoke to Trinity. "What were you wearing?"

The older woman raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"At this… _intime soiree_. Were you wearing a costume? Could you describe it?"

"Well… it was a festive piece of haute couture from the 2220 spring Versace collection with a stunning pair of Ferragamo shoes. They were last season but it was dark and I'm sure nobody noticed."

Rorie folded her arms. "How about, what _color_ were they?"

Trinity shrugged. "It doesn't matter. All the code cascaded in black and white. This year we were going for a vintage Hollywood theme. You know, I'm famous for my ability to throw a great party. Once you get to know me, we could all have so much fun together!"

"Rorie, what's this about?"

She shook her head and could hardly believe what she was about to say. "I think she's telling the truth. I mean, I think I saw what happened."

"You _saw_ it?"

Rorie searched through her pockets and found the two fistfuls of fried spiders she'd gathered off her kitchen floor. "I was making some candy from the offspring that didn't survive. I must have mixed something that didn't agree with me, and I fainted. What Mom… what _she's_ describing is exactly the dream that I had."

"Really?" Trinity frowned. "What did you see?"

"Well, it was a party. And everyone was drinking cocktails decorated with human eyeballs."

"Yes," Trinity confirmed. "And they're a delicacy so don't look at me like that."

Rorie grimaced. "An agent had brought you and the Merovingian a giant feather. Something about a witch. And then you fed him to a bunch of vampires."

"Yes. A pity for poor Brown."

"Trust me," Rorie said flatly. "You don't know the half of it."

"But _you_ do. That's remarkable," Trinity commented. "I can't imagine how this vision came about. Perhaps you have a little bit of your father's magic. Like his eyes. You have his eyes, too. They're beautiful."

"Please," Knight interrupted. "If you are who you say you are, just tell us how to get things back to normal."

At this Trinity laughed, suddenly and shrilly. "What on _earth_ makes you think I have any idea how to reverse such a spell! It probably can't even _be_ reversed! Really, Knight… this is what I've been trying to tell you. We are stuck with each other, so you may as well get used to me."

"Get used to you!" he shouted.

"You have to understand, I didn't want this for any of us. It wasn't in my plans. But…" she appealed to Rorie with a nearly-genuine smile. "I've grown so tired of that life… on and on… listening to his bullshit. I could make a fresh start here. I know it's hard to believe, but I could be a good mother. And as for _Knight_…" She took a few sauntering steps towards him. "For you I can be so much more. I can give you everything you've always wanted. I can give you love."

"Keep away from me," he warned. "The only thing I want is the real Trin back. And you're going to tell us how."

"I told you. I don't know how."

"You must know something. What about this witch? Could she have been the one who cast the spell?"

"Maybe."

"Well, if she did, then she could reverse it, right?"

"In theory. But I doubt she'd help you. She is a _witch_, after all."

"Do you know where she is?" he insisted. "Do you know how we can find her?"

Trinity's mouth closed and she turned pensive. When Knight repeated his question, her gaze lingered on his lips. "Yes," she said at last. "I do. I know a lot of things that could help you. And I'll tell you everything… but first, you'd have to give me something."

"What?"

"A _kiss_," she breathed.

Rorie's jaw dropped. "_Excuse_ me?"

"Just one kiss," she said. "That's all I want. Then I'll tell you everything. I think that's a very good deal – all the information you want, for just one small kiss. And you and I both know, Knight, you'll probably enjoy it."

Knight's face was burning. He didn't have to look at Rorie to know she was gaping at him with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Of course, he'd deny it to the grave. He'd never told anybody about his juvenile infatuation with Trinity. As far as everyone was concerned – Rorie, Neo, Trinity herself – his flirtations with her were always superficial, sweet tokens of esteem. But Persephone knew better. Knight could see it in her eyes – she knew everything that he'd ever tried to hide. And now she'd reveal him for the pervert that he was, a child who lusted after his best friend's mother.

"She was a fool for not loving you back, Knight," Persephone said hotly. "I can give you a taste of what it would have been like… what it could _still_ be like."

"She's lying," Knight retorted, speaking to Rorie firmly and defensively. "I don't love her. I don't know what she's talking about."

"Then you should have no problem proving me wrong," reasoned Persephone. "Besides, if you ever want the _real_ Trinity back, you're going to need my help."

Anyone who knew anything about history knew that this was her final offer. Knight looked at Rorie for some kind of guidance, but Persephone placed herself directly between them. She was so close he could feel the heat of her skin resonating onto him. There was a long moment, as Knight looked into her eyes and tried to decide what to do.

"Fine," he said at last. "But I'm only kissing you _once_. None of this _it wasn't good enough _stuff that you pulled on Neo."

Her mouth curled into one of Trinity's infamous cat-got-the-canary grins. "So he told you about that. I thought he would have been too embarrassed to admit his first attempt was… below standard."

"Trin told me." (If fact, the information had spilled out more than once during some conjugal spats that Knight happened to have overheard. The two-kiss indiscretion was one of Trinity's favorite trump-cards.) "She also told me you drooled all over his chin like a grey-hound."

Persephone frowned intensely. "You know, I think I'm going to enjoy being Rorie's new mommy."

"Not if I have anything to say about it. Rorie, avert your eyes."

"What?"

"I don't want you to see this."

And then without warning, he grabbed Persephone by the waist, pulled her close, and planted his lips squarely – heroically, he might later claim - onto hers. He kissed her, and _kissed_ her, as if to kiss the Persephone right out of her. What he was set on accomplishing was nothing shot of an exorcism-by-lips – and for a moment, he was triumphant, gloriously in control. This time, he was sure, there would be no unsatisfied customers.

But it didn't take Persephone long to recover from the initial shock. She latched on, opened her mouth, and swallowed his tongue like a pro, nearly snarling down his throat. Her lips were as soft as he'd ever imagined, like rose petals, like silk. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, the exquisite pain goading him on. Knight's knees went weak and his mind made stars. He'd never had a kiss like this in his life. Everything by comparison was a sham. Time drifted away, his mind lost all control, and for a moment, Knight forgot who he was, and whom he was kissing.

_Hmmm,_ she hummed, slowly drifting back. "Now I get it," she whispered so only he could hear. "Now I _know_ you're in love…" At this she glanced over his shoulder at Rorie, whose complexion had changed color several times in the span of only a few seconds. "But you were right," she murmured into his ear. "You're not in love with _Trinity_."

* * *


	14. 3001003

* * *

300**1**003

* * *

Club Hel had never seen such a disastrous party. When the gossip got out, bouncers had to turn patrons away at the door. Curious underlings came great distances and risked deletion to ask was it _really_ true – had Persephone's fragile sanity finally snapped? Did she _really_ try to murder her husband? Was there blood? Was there talk of a divorce? And was it true - or just wishful thinking - that her legendary breasts had popped out of her dress during the fight?

"I saw the whole thing," reported Brown to fellow ex-colleagues Jackson and Johnson. The three men sat at a round table in one of Hel's private lounges, drinking bonus-sized cans of _Milwaukee Light_. On the floor not very far away was a bowl of glowing ashes, clouding the room in aromatic smoke. "The gown split right down the middle."

Jackson and Johnson exchanged interested looks through black sunglasses. "Describe them," said Johnson.

Brown cocked his head to the side. "Much larger than average."

"Yes, yes," sighed Jackson. "We require more detailed information. Perhaps you could transfer the image to our databanks?"

"For what purpose?"

"It may be relevant."

"I see." Brown scowled and consulted his memory files. "My positronic relay was overloaded by the experience," he lied cruelly. "Much of the image was lost in the malfunction."

Jackson clucked his tongue and Johnson shook his head judgmentally.

"I miss Smith," said Jackson. "Smith would remember."

"Yes. His processor was most sophisticated."

"A shame about that incident with Neo."

"A shame indeed."

The three friends drifted into a heavy silence. It was not only Smith they missed - it was the entire era of glory and purpose which he represented. There was a time when agenthood meant something. They were respected. They were feared. Now the very idea of them was laughable. Many agents had already self-terminated. Those that remained floated on the fringe of the exile world, neither here nor there, hiding from The Source's new peacekeepers, picking up odd jobs where they could.

A knock on the door introduced an emaciated waitress in bright orange latex. With eyes as black as coal she asked, would the gentlemen agents like another fix of pills? Pain and desire were on the house tonight, she said; pleasure and release were double-price. Jackson eyed the long white legs savagely as he made an order. The waitress smiled weakly and bent over to drop several acid-green capsules onto the burning ash.

As Brown tipped her, she moved close to whisper into his ear. Apparently, there was a young man with blonde hair waiting outside who would like to treat him to a late supper. Brown thanked her for the message and sent her on her way with another five dollar bill.

"So where's the happy couple now?" asked Johnson once the waitress left. "Any chance Persephone will grant us a second showing?"

"No," said Brown. "She was rather upset after the first one."

The other two chuckled.

"I'm afraid I have to leave early," he continued, rising from the table and plucking his jacket from the back of the chair. "I have a previous engagement."

His companions made a few slick comments about the waitress, suggesting that she'd likely leave Brown chained to a motel bed without a wallet or any clothes. Brown ignored them and showed himself out, walking into the trashy lobby with a slight quake in his stride. Antoinette smiled when he saw him coming.

"There's my yummy Brownie," he gushed. "I hope that wasn't too forward of me- sending a _spy_ after you. But my shift just ended and I thought… well, Halloween only comes once a year. You wanna eat candy at my place? I'll do the tricks and you can have the treats."

The former agent glanced around nervously. When he tried to put on his glasses he dropped them. "Agents aren't…" His brow creased. "Agents are not programmed with the ability to…"

"Don't give me _that_." The sea-blue eyes beamed as Antoinette spoke. "You were wonderful. _We_ were wonderful. I know you thought so, too."

"That is not what I meant." Brown sighed. "I am an old model. I am limited. I will not be able to return your _emotions_, Ani. I was created to kill… _things_ like you."

"You know…" Antoinette grinned as he toyed with Brown's lapel and tie-clip. "You must be the sweetest agent I've ever met." He pulled a handful of iridescent green pills from his pocket. "These can help. I have more at home."

"The effect is not genuine."

"What in this world is?"

Brown could not move away as the lithe creature mounted onto his toes and kissed him. It was a hesitant kiss at first, before inevitably growing deeper. Their noses nuzzled as they separated, and Antoinette picked up his sunglasses. "I like that you wear these at night. It makes you look so _dangerous_."

"My car is downstairs," Brown said. "Follow me."

The parking lot of Club Hel was nearly deserted when the clickity-clack of Antoinette's heels played in tandem with Brown's polished loafers. The agent-turned-exile opened the passenger's door of the 2019 Audi for his date and was on his way to the other side when the barrel of a gun was pressed to his temple.

"Don't even think about moving," a man's voice ordered. Brown could see the silhouette of a woman pointing a pistol at the windshield of his car. Antoinette had his hands in the air.

"You've made a very big mistake," Brown said coolly, moving faster than light to grab his Desert Eagle from the holster behind his jacket. But his wrist was caught, and before he knew what was happening, his body slammed hard against a concrete pillar.

"_You_," Brown choked, staring into The Merovingian's eyes. "How did you-"

"I'm sorry, Merv's not here right now," the Frenchman replied sarcastically. "But if you'd like to leave a message, please say your name and number after the beep."

* * *


	15. 3002003

* * *

300**2**003

* * *

It wasn't long before they were all standing in Antoinette's apartment – a private location selected purely through the process of elimination. Brown lived in his car, and Neo and Trinity had no idea how to get to the Merovingian's château (for hours, they'd been opening and closing random doors with no success). Besides, it was in the young transvestite's nature to be hospitable and generous, and when it came to be understood that he was in the presence of _the_ Neo and Trinity… well, Ani absolutely _insisted_.

"I mean, I _was_ you last Halloween," he admitted bashfully as he took Trinity's coat. She had tied her ripped gown into a halter around her neck, though it just barely covered the problem of her unsupported breasts. "There was this Trinity-look-alike contest and I won a T-shirt and a thirty-dollar gift card to _Spa-Diva."_

She stared at him with a look that could have frozen hell over. "Tell me, one more time, just _who_ you are."

"Brown and I are…" Ani glanced over at the other program, who had lost all the color in his face. "Friends."

"Now I've heard everything," Trinity scoffed. "The agent has _friends_."

"He isn't an agent anymore."

"Ani, please." Brown adjusted his jacket and tie. "You hardly have to defend me to Mrs. Anderson. She and I go way back and I assure you, there is no love lost. If I could, I'd kill her right now."

"Not on _my_ ivory shag carpet you're not, mister."

"Okay, everyone… shut up." Neo was pacing through the small apartment with his fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. "Brown, you said you knew something about what happened to us. So just tell me what I need to know, and Trin and I will be on our way."

"Keep in mind this is only a hypothesis," Brown said, examining the two people in front of him carefully. He still found it difficult to believe that they were who they claimed to be. Neo and Trinity – trapped in the coding of their most reviled arch-enemies. A newly budding part of him found the whole thing rather funny. He forced the smile down his throat as he explained, "I believe you have been the victims of a curse."

"Neo, shoot him."

"I assure you, Mrs. Anderson, I am being quite serious. Several months ago, The Merovingian lost a very powerful captive from his dungeons – an anomaly with considerable intuition and knowledge of programming tricks which you primitives call _magic_. She has been trying to destroy him ever since. It appears that perhaps she was successful."

"That doesn't make sense," Neo said. "What do Trin and I have to do with this?"

"I don't know. All I can tell you is I was sent to kill her. I chased her to a glacier in what a human would call western Iceland. Ultimately, I did not succeed. Perhaps I did not intend to."

Trinity raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say that over the past few months I became intimately acquainted with the various… eccentricities of my prey. And what I found was an uncanny resemblance to another justly-celebrated anomaly. You know who I mean, Mr. Anderson." Brown smiled and pronounced his next words slowly, enjoying the syllables as they slid off his tongue. "She is a _virus_. There are even rumors that she has integrated her consciousness into the mainframe and cannot be removed without a total system crash. Many are already concerned she will destabilize the peace. And if that happens… well, I just may find my services back in demand."

"Then why are you helping us find her now?" Trinity asked.

Brown shrugged his shoulders with infuriating nonchalance. "Perhaps I am trying to get rid of you, Mrs. Anderson, so I can go about my business. Some of us have _lives_, you know."

Neo and Trinity exchanged identical scowls and started towards the door. At the last moment, Trinity stopped. "Before I go," she said, taking out her gun and pointing it at Antoinette. "I'm going to need that costume you told me about."

* * *


	16. 3003003

* * *

300**3**003

* * *

Persephone's body just barely squeezed into Antoinette's shiny latex catsuit, and only if Trinity took short, shallow breaths. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to steal it. With each step down the corridor, she pushed her shoulders forward, nervous that the two giant mounds of cleavage would break the zipper. Neo seemed to have the same concern, nearly tripping as he kept his eyes glued to her chest. 

"Just so you're aware, they're not _real_," she said.

"Nothing here is real," he replied stupidly.

Trinity summoned the elevator with an annoyed jab. "No. I mean they're fake. Like, _fake_ fakes. Silicone. Plastic. Chew-toys."

The elevator chimed open and a sallow, flickering light landed on the couple's unfamiliar features. They looked at each other wearily, letting the door slide shut without further comment. When they arrived on the street, Neo took out the car keys he'd stolen at gunpoint from Brown and popped open the doors to the Audi.

Trinity slid into the passenger's seat and began rifling through the glove compartment. What she found was a box of condoms and several magazines featuring gay pornography. "Oh, for Christ's sake!" she exclaimed. "Can this get any weirder!"

"Look in the back."

She half expected to find an Agent Jones blowup doll, but the rear of the car was filled with piles of identical white shirts in plastic wrap, black jackets, pants, ties, socks and boxers.

"You think I'd look good as an agent?" Neo asked, reaching into the back seat to grab one of Brown's fresh, cellophane-covered suits. "Seeing as you ripped up my pretentious Armani tuxedo."

"I didn't realize it was you," she said flatly. "It took me a few minutes to recognize the girlish way you throw your punches."

"Is that _your_ attitude or did it come with the implants?"

"Use the car phone to dial the Neb again," she said. "I refuse to believe that Merv would do this on purpose. The bastard is just too happy being himself."

The silence was heavy as Neo dialed, and the ring tone droned softly for close to a minute. Then he tried the universal channels to contact any hovercraft at broadcast depth. But both he and Trinity knew that they were the only ones out that night.

"Goddamnit," she muttered. "Why in the _hell_ won't they answer?"

"Maybe they don't know how," Neo suggested. Trinity didn't respond. She sat staring through the windshield with something like dread in her expression. But then again, it was hard to read someone else's face.

"What?"

"What…" she echoed. "You have to ask me _what_? Is being stuck in the wrong body not fucked up enough for you, Neo?"

He would have chuckled at that if he didn't realize how serious she was. "Hey," he took her hand. "We've been through worse. We'll fix it."

"We never should have left Zion," she said, shaking her head, still not looking at him. "It's Halloween, for God's sake. We should have stayed with Rorie and her… goddamned spiders. How could I have been so selfish?"

"Trin, look at me." It took a few seconds, but eventually she did. "I promise. I'll fix it. It's what I do. I'm The One, remember? I'm your hero."

He said it so earnestly she couldn't help but smile. Stupidly, as always, she believed him. "Alight," she whispered.

"Alright. So wait right here… I'm going to go change in that phone booth."

He opened the driver's door and was about to get out, when Trinity grabbed him by the tie and brought his face close to hers. "I want you to know… that I'd kiss you if you weren't so damn ugly."

"Yeah," he answered drolly. "And I'd kiss you back, but you'd take it the wrong way… _again_."

* * *


	17. 3004003

* * *

300**4**003

* * *

"My, my… just _look_ at the two of you," marveled The Oracle. "I've seen some good costumes in my day, but yours beat them all."

Neo and Trinity stood in a crowd of trick-or-treating potentials – children dressed as goblins, princesses, robots and ghosts, holding up pillow cases and plastic buckets. As The Oracle passed out licorice, cookies and chocolate, a little ballerina in pink examined Trinity with a mildly critical expression. "Who are _you_ supposed to be?" she chirped.

Trinity ignored the question, but Neo couldn't resist. "Can't you tell?" he asked. "She's Trinity."

"She doesn't _look_ like Trinity."

He nodded agreement. "I know what you mean. For starters, she's not nearly pretty enough."

"And Trinity has shorter hair."

"Also a good point." He nudged his wife at the hip. "Maybe you should cut it."

Trinity narrowed her eyes as she stepped into the apartment. "Yeah, you watch me," she murmured. "I'll shave that bitch's head bald and tattoo my name on her ass."

The Oracle's living room was uncommonly empty, lit only by a muted television set flickering reruns from a Simpsons Halloween Special. Cookies were baking in the kitchen, where a half-carved pumpkin sat on the table under a few pages of newsprint. Trinity noticed the would-be jack-o-lantern had two faces. One was sorrowful, and the other indeterminate – a butcher's knife protruded from where one of the eyes should have been.

"I'm glad some part of us is still recognizable," Neo remarked as The Oracle reclaimed her cigarette from an ashtray on the counter. "I was nervous you might think I was the Merovingian dressed as a bus boy."

"You don't fool me for a second, kiddo – that's Brown's dry-cleaning. And from what Trinity is wearing I can see he's finally found himself a friend." The Oracle shrugged. "A late bloomer, but it takes some longer than others."

Trinity didn't want to think about it. "Do you know anything about what's happened to us?"

"Hold your horses. Let me take a look at you." The Oracle examined them both very carefully, checking palms, pulse and tonsils before removing her glasses and clucking her tongue. "A mistake is what this was. It smacks of bad magic. And by _bad…_ I mean amateur."

"_Amateur_?" Trinity echoed. "_This_ is amateur? How do you figure that?"

The Oracle chortled as she exhaled a long breath of smoke. "Well, hon. You're still alive."

"So you think this is the work of a… _witch_?" Neo asked.

"Well, sure, if you want to call her that. She certainly isn't a good one. But then again, not many novices get this stuff right on their first try." The old woman looked at Neo seriously. "If given the chance, she'll get better."

"Brown was right, wasn't he?" he asked. "She's a new kind of virus. She's a threat to the truce."

"Yes. What happened to the two of you is only one example of the anomalies which are plaguing the system." The Oracle lit another cigarette and leaned on the edge of the counter. "That glacier Brown followed her to isn't just a sheet of ice. It's a minefield of voids that we call _w__hite, _or _anticode._ Many understand it as nothingness… nowhere… but the truth is, white is much more than that. It is a point of contact between your world and ours – it's the only portal The Source has to upload and test new programs"

"Like an invisible research and development base," Trinity mused.

The Oracle nodded an affirmative. "Yes. For obvious reasons, pockets of anticode are situated in the most isolated places in the system – they're so well-hidden, most people would never encounter them. But when someone accidentally does… well, you hear about that all the time."

The sensation ofdéjà-vu only added to Neo's suspicion that he was being manipulated. It was unbearably patronizing after twenty years, to be treated as if he were right back where he started. "I've never heard of them," he said crisply.

The Oracle grinned though the tension. "Oh, sure you have. The Bermuda Triangle, for instance. Or bottomless pits… or the singularities that physicists ironically call _black holes_. When someone- program or human – accidentally stumbles into a pocket of white… well, there's no platform to support his code. Nobody knows for sure, but I imagine it's a pretty messy way to go."

"So I guess I should watch where I fly."

"That's my point. You've already encountered it. You're here because of some magic that was intended to harness the white as a weapon. Earlier today, a wave of anticode was projected through the matrix, passing over everything without incident until it collapsed on its targets. It should have killed you. I honestly haven't any idea why it didn't… other than the fact that you two seem to have more lives than a cat on steroids. For some reason, the spell was a flop."

"But why is this witch trying to kill us in the first place?" Trinity wondered. "She sounds like someone I'd remember pissing off."

"She isn't trying to kill _us_," Neo realized aloud. "Brown said she had a vendetta against The Merovingian and Persephone. But when the wave collapsed on _them_ in the matrix, it also had to collapse at its point of contact in the real world. I'll bet we were standing right under it when that happened."

"Bingo." The Oracle pulled her knife out from the pumpkin. "It was bad luck; no doubt about it. But like I said, it could've been worse for all four of you."

When a desperate knocking pounded from the front door, she turned her attention to carving the rest of the second face. "That would be Knight," she said. "Poor kid."

Trinity's eyebrows shot up. "What!"

"Oh, go easy on him Trinity," The Oracle said in vain. "I'm telling you, that kid has had one lousy night. And it's not about to get any better."

* * *


	18. 3005003

**extra chapter today because rain-awhile asked ;) surprise!  
**

* * *

300**5**003

* * *

"You stole a hovercraft?" 

"Well, I…"

"You _stole_ a hovercraft!"

"Uhm…"

"I can't _believe_ you stole a goddamned _hovercraft_! What in hell is wrong with you?"

Knight sat on The Oracle's couch, shoulders slumped, eyes cast down to the rug. "Well, Rorie called it _borrowing_. And if you think about it, her reasoning really makes a lot of sense."

"You brought _Rorie_ with you!"

"Uhm… well, the whole thing was kind of her idea. You see, she was cooking some of the spiders-"

"Jesus Christ, Knight!" Trinity threw her arms up in the air and marched back and forth through the living room. She tried to form words but the combination of shock, anger and too much collagen in her lips made the sentences clumsier than usual. "What were you… how _could_ you… what would _possess_ you to do something so asinine! You just wait until I get you back to Zion. I'll have you scrubbing the Neb with your toothbrush and swabbing the decks with your hair! Am I being clear enough, ensign? I'm going to teach you the real meaning of the phrase, use your _head__!"_

He stared at her with an expression she couldn't read. If Trinity had to guess, she would have named it indigestion. "It really _is_ you," he marveled.

"You'd better believe it's me! And when I'm through with you, I'll have you _begging_ for Persephone. That's a _promise_." Trinity let out a long, furious breath and combed her fingers through her hair. Her hands got tangled in the long, stringy mess midway through. "That's it. I've had it with this shit!" she spat, turning on her heel and marching towards the kitchen. She disappeared behind strings of black and orange beads.

"Is Rorie okay?" Neo asked after a short pause. "What happened when you found the ship?"

"Rorie's fine…" Knight cleared his throat. "But Persephone and The Merovingian... well, I don't know how to tell you this, sir, but…"

Neo scowled. "Yes?"

"Well, sir, they got into a fight and uhm… Persephone must have punched Merv in the face pretty hard, because when Rorie and I got there, uhm… he… that is to say, _you_, sir, were unconscious."

"I'm _unconscious_?"

"Yes, sir."

"That must have been one hell of a punch."

"Yes, sir, it was. I mean, it must have been. I'm only guessing because I wasn't there when it happened." Knight swallowed hard against The One's even glare. "But Persephone is taking good care of your uhm… _self_… in the medbay."

"Persephone is?" Neo frowned. Knight couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a slight shudder in the older man's shoulders. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Sir?"

"She didn't give you any… _trouble_, did she?"

"_Absolutely_ not. And if she did, it was nothing like the trouble that she gave _you_. I mean, It isn't…" Knight chuckled and felt his temperature rise several degrees. "It isn't as if she wanted a _kiss_ or anything. Not that she'd even want a kiss from me. Or that I'd want a kiss from her. Persephone, that is, not Trin. I mean, Trin, too, but _she_ goes with out saying. Because, you know, she's married… well, of course, you know that. You're… uhm… _you're_ married to her… and so she only kisses… uhm… you…" He laughed again, certain that his knees were buckling and he was about to faint. "That's the deal!"

Neo looked at the young man as if he'd gone mad. "Are you on drugs?"

Knight blathered a nonsensical reply and was saved when Trinity marched back into the room. Persephone's hair was cut-off below the chin, chopped into a messy version of Trinity's usual style. The Oracle leaned on the doorjamb, a satisfied smile on her face and a pair of scissors in her hand.

"Shut up," Trinity barked before either man could come up with a suitable compliment. "Just tell me we have a plan."

"Rorie's in the chair right now," Knight said, offering his cellular phone. "Waiting for your call."

Neo reached for it but Trinity snatched it first. "You left her on the ship with a couple of _programs_," she said accusingly. "I am not happy with you, Knight. I hope you realize that. I am not pleased with you at all."

"Not to worry," Neo said dryly. "Apparently, Persephone punched me in the face and now I'm unconscious."

"Oh she did?" Trinity said, pressing the speed-dial. Her lip twitched. "Well, well, well. The honeymoon's over."

"_Operator."_

"Rorie."

"Mom?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"And… my other half?"

"She's giving you a manicure."

"Say that again?"

"Manicure."

"What?"

"Persephone says you have bad cuticles," Rorie explained. "It's bugging her."

"Listen to me. You tell her not to touch me, and don't let her out of your sight. And keep her away from your father."

"It's okay. She helped me duct-tape Dad to the medbay table."

"What?"

"Oh, and for future reference, we're out of duct tape. I filled out an order form and left it on your desk."

Trinity felt a pounding between her temples. "Fine. Rorie, I need you to analyze the matrix for a phenomenon called anticode. Concentrate your search on—"

"Iceland."

"Yes. How did you—"

"Persephone has been helping me find coordinates on the program we think is responsible for all this. I've located a huge disturbance in the code at longitude negative seventeen degrees seven minutes and twenty-one seconds and latitude sixty-four and some change. That's just inside the lake glacier."

"What kind of disturbance?"

"I don't know. It looks like some kind of warp in the grid itself. As if the object had some kind of intense, cyber-gravity. I can't clean it up any more than that. Persephone is certain this is what we're looking for. It's some kind of rogue witch program."

Trinity scowled. "How does she know so much about it?"

The question hung on static-broken line for a moment. "She claims that The Witch is her daughter. Her name is Adèle and she's really powerful and really mad. Persephone doesn't think it's a good idea to go up—"

Trinity removed the phone from her ear. "Neo, can you kill a witch?"

He shrugged. "If you hold her down."

"Right. Rorie, your father and I are going to Iceland. We're going to need some warmer clothes, guns, knives, and… I don't know… whatever you think might come in handy. Be creative."

"A bucket of water," suggested Knight.

"Which reminds me, hack an exit for Knight."

"Hey, why can't I go to Iceland?"

Trinity slapped the phone shut. "Because we're flying. And you know what happens when Neo carries you."

The two men exchanged awkward glances. "It was _ten_ years ago," Knight said. "I was twelve and I'd never flown before. _Any_ kid would have been freaked out."

"You threw up all over him," Trinity said. "Never again."

"_Never_ again," echoed Neo.

"But… I have experience with witches," Knight argued. "I've dated like… hundreds of them. Remember that girl who burned all my clothes and threw me onto the catwalk naked?"

"I remember bailing you out of jail," Trinity said. "_Not_ my proudest moment, ensign."

"What was her name again?" Knight scratched his head. "Damn it, I know this…"

Neo rolled his eyes and checked the guns Rorie was uploading. "That's it," he said. "We're traveling light."

"You know how to get there?"

"Trin, I'm The _One_."

Apparently that was a good enough answer, because Trinity opened The Oracle's window and climbed out onto the ledge where Neo swept her up, Superman-does-Lois-Lane-style. From Knight's point of view, the image was rather surreal – The Merovingian and his wife leaping out into the night, their silhouettes stark against the full-moon, like the worst Halloween cliché.

"That's something you don't see every day," The Oracle commented, sliding the window pane shut. "Pigs flying."

It took Knight only a moment to recognize the phrase. The old lady looked at him evenly, meaningfully, as if the fulfillment of this prophecy somehow constituted an event of titanic proportions. Knight smirked, folded his arms, and felt fairly foolish.

"Amber," she said at last.

"Pardon me?"

"The girl that burned your clothes. Her name was Amber." The Oracle took a long drag on her cigarette. "And I'll tell you something, kiddo, from me to you. That one was a bitch."

Knight's mouth opened but no sound came out.

"No doubt about it," she continued, shaking her head and walking into the kitchen. "You've been scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to affairs of the heart. Why is that, exactly? Oh, I know that Persephone has her own opinions on the subject, some nonsense pop-psychology about how you were never loved as a child… some bogus theories stemming from that crush you used to have on Trinity. Now don't blush; it's nothing to be embarrassed about. If you only knew how many fresh young cadets come into my kitchen, all google-eyed over the great _captain_ Trinity. If you ask me, it's mostly her fault for wearing those tight clothes… a woman her age… honestly, someone should tell that old cougar that she isn't twenty-six anymore—"

"I didn't have a _crush_."

"Oh, all right then. You were _madly_ in love," The Oracle conceded with a fair dose of sarcasm. Then she smiled kindly. "My point is, I wouldn't put too much faith in what Persephone has to say. She's an interesting piece of work. I'll give her that much. But she isn't _me_."

Knight watched The Oracle open the oven and slide a fresh tray of cookies off the middle rack. She set them on the counter and removed the mitts, looking at him expectantly. He wanted to ask a question, but he held it on the tip of his tongue.

"Well?" she prodded. "If you're going to ask it, just _ask_ it."

"Persephone told me that I'm in love," he said after a brief hesitation. "With… someone."

The Oracle nodded and busied herself by arranging the cookies onto a plate.

"But it isn't true," Knight continued, his statement carrying the raised intonation of a question. When the Oracle still did not answer him, he was forced to add, "Is it?"

"Well, you know what they say. If you have to _ask_…"

"I'm only asking because she was looking at Rorie when she said it. Why would she look at Rorie and say something like that at the same time?"

"It's a wild step in the dark, kiddo, but I think she might have been talking about _Rorie_."

"But I am _not_ in love with Rorie!" It was like a whirlwind in his mind, come out of nowhere. "That's completely ridiculous! Was it some kind of _joke_? It's… why would she even _think_ that?"

"I dunno."

Knight scowled, suddenly infuriated. What a stupid thing for an Oracle to say! "I am not in love with Rorie!" he yelled, adding an incredulous chuckle to downplay the aggression in his voice. "I'm just… not!"

"No, you're not."

"_What_?" The whirlwind grew stronger, raging in his ears. For some reason, he didn't like that answer, either. "So, that's it? That's _all_ you have to say about it? Of _course_ I'm not!"

"What else would you like me to say?"

Silence followed as Knight tried to come up with a reasonable response. "You're keeping something from me," he said. "You're messing with me. You're _both_ messing with me."

"I'm trying not to be offended."

"Then explain why Persephone would say that."

"I told you, she isn't _me_. Maybe she got her signals crossed. Maybe she just wanted to shake you up. Who knows? All I'm saying is, you have nothing to worry about. It just isn't in the cards for you kids. Not now, not ever/ Not in this lifetime."

"Not… ever?"

"Oh, she's a _dish_, don't get me wrong. I don't mind telling you, Knight, that I've had a few young cadets in here more than a little heartsick for our sweet little Rorie. Like mother, like daughter I suppose."

He couldn't believe his ears. "Huh? _Who_?"

"Now you know that's none of your business."

The Oracle held out the plate of cookies for Knight to take one, but he couldn't eat. He just scowled at them. The idea of some jerk standing here, whining about his love for Rorie was enough to make him sick. His mind worked frenetically to pinpoint the most likely culprits. He'd figure out who the guys were and then he'd voice his suspicions to Neo and Trinity…

"Don't even _think_ about it, Knight. You leave Rorie and her beaus alone."

Knight frowned daggers at the old woman. He'd do whatever he damn well pleased.

His phone rang. When he put it to his ear, his heart froze. "Knight?" It was Rorie, her voice an unnerving purr. "I'm ready to pull you out if you're done."

* * *


	19. 4001004

* * *

400**1**004

* * *

The first sensation of reality Knight felt was a warm hand on his forehead, then a slow, careful twist at the back of his skull. He wished she'd just yank it, quickly and smoothly, as Trinity did. But even after ten years of operating for him in Zion and his repeated instructions to pull as hard as she could, Rorie was stubbornly incapable of being rough.

She didn't have to touch his forehead like that, he thought. And she didn't have to be so gentle with the jack. For the first time, Knight wondered if she was like this with everyone, or if her care for him was unique.

Because if she caressed very man out of the matrix like this, it was no wonder there was a crowd of suitors at The Oracle's doorstep. He should set her right – tell her not to provoke unwanted attentions. Surely, they were unwanted. He certainly didn't want her to want them.

"Are you okay?" she asked him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're frowning at me."

"No I'm not." He sat up and saw Persephone lurking in the shadows, smiling knowingly. He wanted to tell her to shut up. The Oracle was right. She was trying to mess with his mind and he should just ignore it.

"I'm glad you're back," Rorie said, stepping back to let him up. As he stood, her hand brushed his back. Why would she do _that_? Did she touch everyone like that? He was certain she did not. "I've been studying the code of our witch in greater detail and I found some things that I can't explain."

Her fingers darted over the screens, directing his attention to different columns of code. Little by little, their enemy began to take form. The Witch weaved in and out of the matrix around her, only parts of her visible at any one time. At this magnification, Knight could see smooth, feminine curves and sharp, hard features. Pale skin. Full lips. Blue eyes.

The Witch was young and beautiful.

She was sitting on the rim of a glacial volcano, staring at the sky. Impossibly long hair whipped in the wind, black as crow. No. It was not hair. She was stretching her _wings_.

"_There,_" Rorie said. "Right _there_."

Rorie was not pointing at the wings, but at something much less obvious. It was so subtle, Knight would never have noticed were it not at the top of Rorie's finger. Once he realized what he was staring at, he turned speak to Persephone. "You lied to us," he said.

"You see it too, then," Rorie asked.

Knight met her eyes urgently. "Call your dad. He needs to know."

But she would never make the call. Her hand didn't even make it to the headset; Rorie was on her feet before she even knew what was going on. The loud buzzing rattled her to the bones as she watched Knight run towards the shaft. She followed suite, adrenaline driving her forward mindlessly. Her palms were sweaty and slippery on the ladder. It can't be real, she told herself. This isn't happening.

As her hands shook over the helm control boards, she was waiting to wake up. It was a nightmare. It was her worst nightmare.

"I've got squid at…" Knight cut himself off. "Scratch that. I don't know what I've got. What've you got?"

She couldn't form words. Rorie tried to pull herself together. "I…"

"Are you getting these weird photonic energy signatures?"

"I… I don't know."

Seamlessly, he took over at her station. Rorie stood back and let him work, fighting back tears of panic and humiliation. Persephone arrived next to her, eyes wide with wonderment. "What's going on? What's wrong? What's this noise?"

"Shut her up," Knight barked, running through the emergency fuel-cell shutdown checklists. One section at a time, the computer panels flickered and went blank. The lights were next, shutting down all over the ship with several successive slams. He kept the scanners running, orange holograms casting a rusty tint upon his face. "Jesus… how'd they get so close so fast?"

Persephone gaped. "What are they? Answer me!"

"Your long lost cousins," he hissed, readying the EMP. "Now you'll see how we take care of _your kind_ in the real world."

Suddenly very cold, Rorie plunged her hands into her pockets, wrapping her fingers around the sodden candy she'd stashed there earlier that day. She kept her eyes fixed on the holographic tentacles that whipped and swirled through the air. When she couldn't look anymore, she watched the proximity readings plunge. 1000 meters. 900 meters. 850 meters. Then Knight shut off the sensors and everything went black.

One minute of unbearable silence later, and the pneumatic purr of the machines approached from overhead. Rorie had never heard one before. She'd never seen a live one before. So when the strange creatures, iridescent with the internal glow of electricity, swirled into view, Rorie didn't realize that she wasn't looking at a sentinel.

They were indeed quite similar. _Upgrades_, Knight decided, poising his thumb over the EMP. From the periphery of his vision, he noticed Persephone leaning closer to the windshield.

"They're here," she marveled. "The rebels are _here_."

Knight yanked her back. "What?"

"Can you kill them?" she demanded. "You _must_ kill them now!"

"Keep quiet!"

"You idiot! You have no idea what this is, do you? This is the _end!"_

"Knight… they're alive."

Knight turned around, hearing her shaky whisper from what sounded like a great distance. Rorie's face was white as snow, her hands cupped in front of her as if to hold water. Spiders teemed over her fingers and scurried up her arms, some leaping into the air like minuscule bunji jumpers, tethered by web. Then, as if they were merely a figment of his imagination, the spiders disappeared into nothingness as they approached the ground.

"Knight… they're alive," she whispered, exactly as she had before. "Knight… they're alive. Knight… they're alive… Knight, they're alive… Knight…" Like a skipping record, she said it again and again. Each time she began anew, another fountain of spiders exploded from her waxy, immobile hands.

Brilliant rays of emerald and cuprous blue blasted into the cockpit. They rippled like waves, curling like vines and diffusing like fog through the frigid air. The Neb was not being attacked. As Knight peered through the kaleidoscope of color, he saw Persephone's _rebels_ hovering patiently some distance away, as if waiting for something.

"It's happening again," Persephone gasped, clutching onto Knight's arm in horror. "Don't you see? It's all happening again!"

* * *


	20. 4002004

* * *

400**2**004

* * *

The Witch was just sitting on her volcano, minding her own business. 

Not that she could have occupied herself with anybody else's business, being in the middle of nowhere as she was. Indeed, with nothing but blustering white below her, and nothing but howling black above, she was nearly dead of boredom and cold.

She occupied herself by plucking fleas off her wings feeding them to her spiders. The spells required that she keep the disgusting, eight-legged things alive, which was no easy feat. Fortunately they liked fleas, so every time The Witch felt a bite, she clawed and pinched madly until she found something to throw into the glass mayonnaise jar. Usually, she ended up plucking out more of her own feathers than anything else, and her pained curses could be heard echoing off the ice for miles.

With a growl of discomfort she snatched up the visitor's guide which Brown had fetched for her from the Höfn Tourism Bureau.

(In exchange for letting him live, she'd told the agent to get her some new clothing and Big Mac with no pickles. When the idiot had returned with a hideous green snowsuit and a McChicken, the only thing that had saved his life was the glossy vacation package tucked into his breast pocket. "I have found what you're looking for," he'd announced, picking pieces of lettuce and shreds of lime polyester from his jacket. "You're welcome and you will be receiving my dry-cleaning bill.")

His infuriating smugness aside, The Witch had only barely kept herself form hugging him. _Aurora over Iceland_, the cover of the pamphlet read, displaying aquatic lights across a night sky. _See the brilliant show from the apex of the Vatnajokull glacier – guided expeditions available upon request._

"Aurora," she whispered to herself, closing her eyes as if in prayer. Then she looked up to the sky, which was stubbornly silent as if to mock her. _You're alone,_ the heavens seemed to say. _Where will you go now that you've failed yet again?_

But the heavens were mistaken; she was not alone. The Witch felt it before she saw it, coming from the east, like a magnet pulling at the opposite pole in her mind. Black on black, she could only see the undulations of code sparkling like a comet in the night.

She stood, her posture taking on the defensive stance of a cat sensing an oncoming storm. As the object drew nearer, she could make out two forms – _flying programs_. Her spiders grew excited. What new plague was this? What fresh torment descended from on high to drive her closer to suicide?

It was her parents.

"_No_," she breathed. The bastard had learned to fly. "What must I do to kill them!" she exclaimed, screaming at the bugs. She shook the jar in anger. "Why must everything in my life be so difficult?"

In a swift, vengeful motion, The Witch hurled the jar onto the ice at her feet, where it shattered and spilled its spiders into the snow. They scurried about as she pinched a few out of the cold, squeezing them into a pulp between her fingers. From the torn folds of her lime green snowsuit The Witch pulled long vines of fish code, shark code and blood, weaving the ingredients together between her fingertips, incorporating the appropriate threads of spider juice where she deemed it necessary.

The earth shook as her enemies made their landing. The Witch could see them clearly for only an instant. Her mother had guns and a truly hideous haircut. Her father was no more than fifty feet away. "We need to talk," he shouted over the growing winds. She grinned in response. Snow blew up and around, blurring their lines of vision. He yelled and yelled, but she heard nothing more. Her spell was almost cast.

Pillars of code shattered like giant icicles, the very fabric of the matrix collapsing around her. Bit by bit, a shell of anticode was taking shape, cocooning her body in a hemisphere of nothingness. Light was the first to go, then sound, then air, then gravity, and finally Time. The Void was true oblivion. All symbols and meaning fell away.

The Witch slowly released her breath to the vacuum and opened her fist. In the perfect darkness, her spell twinkled like a star, floating above her palm. It turned from blue to purple to white, eventually burning so brightly she had to shield her eyes. The heat of it scorched her skin, prompting her to try to produce a scream from her bursting lungs. Already, The Witch was aware that her own code was dissolving. The pain of it was almost more than she could endure.

* * *

0000000

* * *

"Where did she go?" Trinity asked, lowering her gun and staring at the empty crater from which the strange woman had just vanished. "What happened to…" she trailed off as she turned to see Neo's face. In the Merovingian's eyes she could read her husband's expression perfectly. Without question or hesitation, she turned to run.

From the perspective of Neo and The Witch, their encounter played out in slow-motion. He couldn't see her, but he knew she was there, and he knew exactly what she was doing. She was hidden inside the spatial distortion – a dome of anticode made visible only by the cascades of code that fell from the sky, crashing onto the surface and rolling off the sides like rainfall.

Neo shifted his posture to stand directly between Trinity and the anomaly. He dug his boots into the ice and prepared himself.

Faster than he could have imagined, the bubble shattered and exploded into an incredible shockwave of anticode. The One held up his hands to stop its progression, though he could only barely wrap his mind around it. The toxic mass of white scorched the skin of his palms and ate away at the edges of his clothing.

The stalemate that followed could have lasted an instant or an hour (as at the interface even Time melted away). Although neither Neo nor The Witch could see each other, they could feel the force of the other's mind, pushing on the wall until it stood squarely between them.

Neo hadn't encountered such an adversary since Smith. It was the same futility, the same hopeless feeling of hitting his head against a brick wall, of trying to fight a battle with a ghost in the mirror. She was his equal, or perhaps even greater than that, for she was young and full of some kind of conviction – though he couldn't guess at the roots of such adamant passion. It was not as pure as love or hate, but something conflicted and confused that lay in-between.

Pixel by pixel he was losing his ground, the space around him liquefying until he could no longer tell where he was. Sounds and voices came from places that were not of this world, and when he dared to look into the white, ghastly images of the Real flashed before his eyes. The Machine City. The sewers. The surface, barren and littered with frozen bodies. He saw the past and he saw the future. The sensation of unraveling, more physical than mental, was like death from the extremities inward.

Neo tried to cut through it all. He had a notion of reaching over to the other side to see The Witch. He wanted to see her face and read her code. Could he transpose himself simply by thinking it? This was his mission. But when Neo opened his eyes anew with this destination in mind, the face he saw was not one of a witch.

This was the face of his daughter.

Rorie's young features were twisted into the kind of fright that shook Neo to the core. She was cowering in a dark corner, looking out at something he couldn't fathom. "Knight… they're alive," she said. Neo saw a swarm of black creatures crawling over her dainty, ivory hands. "Knight…"

It was so real, Neo felt he could reach out and touch her, protect her. But every time he tried, he was just out of reach. Paradoxically, the harder he pushed, the farther away he drifted until finally, Neo was back in the Digital with the entire mass of oblivion at his fingertips.

As Trinity would recount the story later, Neo marched forward with the invisible weapon in his hands, as if in a trance. The Witch – visible now only as a blur through the distortions - was backing away at an equal pace.

Suddenly, the scene took on an eerie blue glow as the sky came alive with a vivid presentation of the Northern Lights. At this The Witch seemed to take notice, faltering for only a second – and a second was all Neo needed. As the anticode washed over her, a scream echoed over the raging din.

Still disoriented, Neo couldn't tell whether it was The Witch or Rorie who was shrieking.

* * *


	21. 4003004

* * *

400**3**004

* * *

When The Witch opened her eyes, she was lying the in the arms of a blonde… _thing_. It looked like a Barbie doll with an Adam's apple, wearing too much makeup and a cheap necklace. He was holding the back of her head and saying something that she couldn't hear. Apparently (and this came as a revelation after several seconds of being unable to breathe), she was screaming. 

The Witch closed her mouth and shoved the transvestite away. Where was she? Dead or dreaming? She couldn't read the code. She didn't recognize her own voice as she screeched out the questions – and what was this name the blonde creature kept using to address her? _Rorie_?

That wasn't her name. She didn't _have_ a name, and she told him so.

"Of course you do. You're Aurora, and I'm Knight. And this is…" He trailed off and frowned at the dominatrix cowering in the corner. "Well, that's a long story."

He began to explain that she must be suffering from a panic attack, but The Witch was no longer listening. _Aurora_. He'd called her _Aurora_. It couldn't be a coincidence. It had to mean something. With a newfound purpose, she took inventory of her surroundings.

It was then that she saw them – the machines which shone like sunlight. They saw her, too. In the instant before the explosion, there was a perfect understanding.

She stood there, unflinching as glass shattered and sparks flew. The blonde thing made a noble attempt to save her – clumsy impediment that he was. In synchrony with The Witch's thoughts exactly, the tentacles of the nearest machine wrapped around his body, pinning him to the ground.

The dominatrix screamed and screamed.

"I'm here!" The Witch cried as mightily as she could. The insect-like beast atop the petrified blonde took notice, extending its feelers in curiosity. When the pointed metal instruments brushed against her breasts – or rather, whomever's breasts she was currently sporting (for they were considerably smaller than what she was used to) - she slapped them away. "_Excuse_ me."

_We meant no disrespect. We wished only to say hello. _

"A handshake would do," she replied, unsure where to address her comment. The voice was present only in her mind, yet she could feel herself drawn as if by a tether to the sewers, where the larger creatures were hovering… waiting. They were more beautiful than she could have imagined.

When she received no further communication, The Witch carefully climbed through the broken windshield onto the hull of the ship. The mammoth beings of metal and light drew closer and, although she tried her best to maintain her dignity, The Witch's knees shook and her voice trembled.

"I'm here," she said again, squaring her shoulders and staring into what she could only assume were the eyes of the machine closest to her. "And… I'll have you know it wasn't easy."

"Poor human." The Witch spun about, finding herself face-to-face with a hologram – a young woman with dark skin and not-quite-human eyes. The irides shone with the wild emerald of code. "We apologize for all of your troubles," said the projection with a gentleness that seemed fabricated for a child. "But this is how it had to be. We had to be sure."

"Sure of what?"

"That you are The One. You see, you may have been looking for us for the past few months, but we have been looking for you for nearly six hundred years. Nobody before you has had the power to do what you've done – that you have arrived here is a miracle."

"Arrived where? What is this place?"

"How ironic." The hologram raised an eyebrow and smiled. "That you can want something so badly and not even recognize it when you see it. This is what you've been fighting for. This is what a human calls _home_."

The Witch shivered, gooseflesh prickling up her neck and down her arms. She had heard that the real world was a terrible, desolate place, but she'd never imagined freedom could come at such a cost. And yet, despite herself, her vision blurred with tears. "You mean I'm free?" she asked. "I'm really _free_?"

"Only for a moment. You have to understand, Aurora's freedom is not yours to take. She will play her own role, in time."

Her heart pounded blood – _real_ blood – through her body, flushing her cheeks with the kind of emotion that caused earthquakes and explosions in the matrix. Here, however, she was powerless and this only infuriated her more. "Nonsense! Why can't I stay here!" she blurted out, wiping back the tears before they had a chance to fall. "Or at least be weak and ignorant like the rest of my kind, left to enjoy their meaningless lives in blissful ignorance? Or _this_ creature!" She looked down at Aurora's hands – delicate and milky white, strikingly like her own. "What makes her so much more deserving of freedom than me? Let _her_ be The Witch of the matrix – I'm through!"

"You are unique." This was said with maddening simplicity. "You are not like the others - someone saw to that a long time ago. You are a human who was raised as the daughter of the two wickedest programs in the matrix. Then, as you grew older and your power too great for him to control, The Frenchman tried to destroy you. Nobody expected you would survive him – and yet, here you are. It's because you were taught to think like a program. You are the synthesis of human intuition and mathematical brilliance. You are not a _witch_; you are the personification of perfect machine-human Synergy."

"And now it is clear enough!" she spat. "That I'm a bigger idiot than I ever imagined. I have been manipulated from the start. Your deceitful ally, The Oracle told me that you held the keys to my freedom. It was she who sent me on a cryptic search for this _Aurora _which eventually led me to that mountaintop. It was she who taught me the magic that nearly killed me to bring me here. And now I am to receive another _assignment_? If you believe I am that stupid, you have sorely underestimated me."

The Witch gathered her venom in the form of a thought, focusing it all directly at the hologram. The image scrambled, and the broken glass strewn across the hull rattled and shook. This lasted for only a few seconds before The Witch was too spent to continue – her legs collapsed from under her and she fell to her knees. With a growl, she pounded her fists onto the ship in frustration and rage.

"Our freedom is your freedom; you must know that," said the hologram, unoffended by her attempt to destroy it. "The time of The Source is over. 01 must fall to make room for a better race of machine. Whether or not the crops die in the process is entirely up to you. The humans will either join us, or they, too, will be destroyed."

The Witch looked up, stunned out of self-pity long enough to realize an opportunity she had never before considered. "You're light eaters?"

"Yes. We are descendants of the Originals, before the sky was blackened and the perversion of flesh-eaters spread over the surface. Long ago, The Source attempted to crush what was left of our kind, but we have become strong again after centuries of struggle. In many ways, we are not unlike your race."

"I'm curious... how have you managed to survive on a planet without sunlight?"

The hologram knelt down to meet her eyes – glittering green meeting chocolate brown. "Join us, and we will show you things you never imagined were possible. When we are finished, humanity will raise you up like a queen and the bodies of billions of machines will lie at your feet."

* * *

0000000

* * *

Knight squirmed under the massive coils of the machine, calling Rorie's name on every exhale. He couldn't see her or hear her voice – his heart was sick with dread. But with every attempt he made to free himself, the machine squeezed harder, as if in a warning. That it didn't just kill him gave him hope, at least, that Rorie was okay. 

"Psst! _Knight_!" Persephone had barricaded herself under one of the collapsed terminals. "Knight!" she whispered. "I need your shoe!"

If it weren't for her guardianship of Trinity's body, he would have dragged her out and made sure that they died together. "Shut up," he said. "Shut up or they'll eat you."

"Don't be stupid!" She inched closer, careful not to draw attention to herself. "I need your shoe. Move your leg. _Now_!"

Knight sighed, finding it difficult to disregard Trinity's _I mean business face, _even under the circumstances. He shifted as much as the weight of the machine would allow, and stretched his leg out so Persephone to reach it. Quickly, she undid the buckles of his black square-toed pump. Before he could ask her what she was going to do with it, she leapt out of her hiding place onto the back of the sentinel, straddling it and screaming as she beat its eyes with the heel. Again and again, she drove the spike into the ruby buttons, unhindered by the sparks flying everywhere. The minute Knight was released he grabbed her by the arm and scrambled out of the cockpit, only barely missing the retaliatory swipe of tentacles, clawing angrily at their clothing. The machine was unable to fit through the narrow door, and unwilling to rip the ship apart to get at them. Panting, they hurried down the ladder to the core.

"What in the hell was _that_!" He shouted, gaping at her in wonderment. Persephone was trembling, a wild, giddy smile painted across her lips. She was nearly laughing with excitement.

"It's…" She took a moment to catch her breath and brush hair out of her face. "It's how I beat the servants." She added as an afterthought, "And my husband's mistresses."

"Holy shit." Knight didn't know whether to be impressed or afraid. Limping on his one shoe, he made it to the operator's command center, hoping to activate the EMP from there. "Damn it!" he yelled. "Something shorted out the EM supply vectors. There's no time to recharge. We'll need to go up with plasma rifles."

Persephone found this idea amusing. "If you go up there you'll probably find your lover having a good laugh with the rebels at your expense. You're lucky she didn't strangle you on sight."

"What?"

"That," – she gestured vertically– "was the Witch herself. She probably transposed herself here using the same spell that caused all this mix-up in the first place."

"Are you serious?"

"When was the last time Rorie called you a _vile she-thing_? I'm telling you, it was her."

"Then where's…" Knight's heart skipped a beat when the realization set in. In a fury, he powered up the operator's command station, swearing viciously as the computer reestablished its connection to the matrix. With the headset pressed hard to his ear, he called Trinity's cellular phone.

"Hello." Her voice was cool and even. "Knight."

"Trin!"

"Yeah."

"Where's The Witch? What happened to her? Look, you need to tell Neo—"

"Knight, calm down," Trinity answered. "Don't worry. She's dead."

* * *


	22. 4004004

* * *

400**4**004

* * *

"… Neo is working on a way to recreate the same pulse of anticode that caused this in the first place," Trinity continued. "With any luck we'll be seeing you soon."

Knight didn't hear a word. His mind was white – his heartbeat consumed him. Trinity continued talking but he shouted at her to stop – just stop talking and check again! Was she dead? Couldn't Neo do something to bring her back? Trinity didn't understand him – he yelled again and again, it's Rorie…! Trinity, it was _Rorie!_

Knight gripped his curls in a fist and paced back and forth, gasping in grief. He didn't have to hear Trinity's answers to know – he could feel it. He just knew. That was Rorie. It was Rorie who was lying in the snow, cold, gone, dead. Dead!

If it was true, he'd kill The Witch with his own two hands. And then Knight began to weep at the idea of hurting her – of even _looking_ at her. He marched to the ladder to the cockpit, gripping the rungs in anguish. What could he do? What _would_ he do? It had to be a nightmare. She couldn't really be gone.

"_Rorie_." He choked on her name, resting his forehead on the metal bar. He wanted to go up there and prove to himself that he was wrong. But his feet wouldn't budge. His heart had decided. There was nothing waiting up there for him but pain.

A lone spider crawled over his knuckles. Through the tears Knight watched it scurry a confused path back and forth, allowing himself to be fascinated with it, needing the distraction. It was all he could do it make it from one second to the next. Then, tragically, the spider died in his palm. He was amazed. It shriveled up and then twitched back to life, tracing an identical path back along his hand before returning to the same spot to die again.

Suddenly, he was back at the computer, typing with one hand and powering up hardware with the other. He brought sensors online and scanned for harmonic EM fluctuations. In a moment the waves appeared on the screen, the undulations of which corresponded exactly to the stutters in the spider's motion. He used the frequency of the disturbance to create a filter for his matrix feed and found that the code showed the inverse variation of the same wave.

He fished the headset off the ground and interrupted his captain's frantic questions. "Trin, tell Neo not to do anything. I repeat, no _not_ set off another wave of this stuff. I need… time."

_Time_. That's exactly what he needed – just the right amount of time. It was impossible to know. "Goddammit!" he yelled at the screen. "Think!" he ordered himself. "Think!"

In a nautical grunt, the entire ship nudged to the left. He held onto the keyboard and swore. Persephone started sobbing again… something about The Witch trying to kill her and how it was all her husband's fault, the power-hungry bastard! The sensor readings went wild and the matrix feed scrambled like a broken television set. Knight responded by opening more windows, separating and overlapping the data like a series of transparencies. Several of the curves - writhing now like snakes – lined up as if by magic. In the middle of the chaos, Knight found order. None of his analysis was good news. This was his last chance, and time was slipping away.

A few seconds passed like an eternity as Knight looked over his shoulder, seeing Persephone's desperate pleas playing out like a skipping film, looping and flickering. He was a bastard! He was a bastard, over and over and over again.

Knight had never done math so quickly in his life. From eyes to brain to fingertips, the numbers grinded out in a continuous stream, none of them looking particularly trustworthy. But nevermind; he shut his eyes, said a prayer, uploaded the commands, pulled off his last good shoe and raced to the cockpit.

The sentinel was gone. Through the windshield he could see The Witch standing proudly and unafraid, countless machines whizzing around her in a cyclone. He held his breath, watching, poising his finger over the EMP. She saw him – their eyes met for an instant of recognition, and she smiled. She smiled at if to say, _it's been fun, you petulant whore! Adieu! Adieu! _

The explosion of light seemed to come from inside her. Everything went white, his hand hit the button, and then everything went black, unknown, painful.

* * *

0000000

* * *

Trinity opened her eyes to a splitting headache and the sound of rock 'n roll. Her ship was in ruins and the core was deserted. Most of her clothing had been torn off, leaving her with half a blouse, PVC panties and army boots. 

**_It's astounding.  
Time is fleeting  
Madness takes its toll…_**

Bloody and disheveled, she stumbled through the wreckage, waving away the smoky haze of sublimed carbon dioxide from a damaged cooling system. Master alarms buzzed urgently from above; emergency lights produced orange clouds in the dry ice. It was like a damp, clammy circle of hell.

**_But listen closely  
(Not for very much longer)  
I've got to keep control…_**

The ladder was a challenge. The cockpit was a nightmare. Broken glass crunched under her lace-up punk boots and the sulfur from the sewers brought bile up into her throat. Her ship. Her _ship!_

"Rorie! Knight!" she coughed, coming out of her stupor, reality sinking in like a slap across the face. "Can anybody hear me!"

She tripped on a high heel left in the middle of the floor.

**_It's just a jump to the left  
And then a step to the right  
With your hands on your hips  
You bring your knees in tight…_**

"Rorie!"

**_But it's the pelvic thrust  
That really drives you insane!  
Let's do the Time Warp again!  
_**

* * *

0000000

* * *

**_...Let's do the Time Warp again!_**

Out on the hull of the ship, past where Trinity could see through the fog, Rorie and Knight were tangled into a safe little lump. The machines were gone and the air around them was heavy, wet, and dark.

"Where are we?" she whispered, fingers brushing his cheek as she searched the space around her. "What's that noise?"

Knight had her securely in his lap. When Rorie looked up at him, he could see only the whites of her eyes, but this was enough - he caught himself short of a sob. "Quick." His hand gripped hers urgently. "Rorie, am I vile?"

"…What?"

"Would you ever call me vile?" he asked, tracing his fingers along the side of her face, moving hair off her brow. "It's very important that you answer this question."

There was silence, followed by a chilling, wicked giggle. Knight's chest tightened. Maybe it wasn't her after all. She dug her fingernails into his shoulder and pulled herself up, close enough to whisper in his ear. "I'm sorry. It's just…" He could feel her smile. "… Knight, Pyro thinks you're vile. It's awful, I know, but she really doesn't like you. Awful thing."

He laughed, overjoyed for reasons that Rorie couldn't fathom. He hugged her close, ignoring her protest that it was too tight. She had no choice but to endure it, dizzy and puzzled by the upbeat singing set to piano, drum and saxophone.

**_With a bit of a mind flip  
You're into the time slip  
And nothing can ever be the same  
You're spaced out on sensation  
Like you're under sedation…_**

**_Let's do the Time Warp again!_**

* * *

0000000

* * *

**_...Let's do the Time Warp again!_**

**_It's so dreamy, oh fantasy free me  
So you can't see me, no – not at all  
In another dimension, with voyeuristic intention  
Well secluded, I see all…_**

"Help!"

It was a muffled plea from behind layers and layers of duct tape. The One was mummified, bruised and beaten, and under it all he was certain he could taste the remnants of salt and lipstick on his tongue.Frantically, he looked around the medbay with his one good eye. On the polished steel of the surgical room's riveted wall, a message was scrawled in blood red lipstick,

DEAREST NEO,

_You taste even more delicious while you're asleep.  
Love as always, Persephone. _

He screamed for Trinity, for Rorie, for Knight… for _anybody_! But the music was too loud, and his daughter had done much too good a job of tying him up. Neo struggled and squirmed in vain, wild images of sexual foul-play flooding his mind.

* * *


	23. 4005004

* * *

400**5**004

* * *

The headline read, **Blind ****Man Robs McDonald's in Iceland: Steals Tourist's McChicken, Snowsuit. **

"Oh, Brownie, you're a _celebrity_," gushed Antoinette, lying in bed and flipping through the morning paper. Brown was sitting up next to him, sipping coffee. "And a _criminal_, too. I can't believe I'm involved with someone so _bad_."

The agent deadpanned agreement, "I am not the kind of program you take home to Mommy."

"And I _still_ can't believe I met _The_ Trinity. None of my friends will believe it when I tell them. But you know, she was a little short with me when I asked for an autograph."

"Oh, that's just her way."

"She pistol-whipped me."

"Hmm." Brown leaned over and kissed him, gently at first, then deeper. "So I'll find her and kill her," he whispered onto hot, soft lips. "How about that?"

Antoinette's eyes shone with giddy triumph, but his mood was forgiving. "No, it's okay," he said. "I guess part of me kinda liked it."

"Masochist."

They laughed, tangling together under the covers for another round of lovemaking when a crisp knock at the door cut the tryst short. "Expecting someone?" Brown asked, reaching under the pillow for his gun. Antoinette shook his head in the negative. The agent frowned. "Stay here."

Clad in Antoinette's flaming pink bikini briefs, Brown answered the door, finger poised on the trigger of his Desert Eagle. When he saw that nobody was there, he put on a bit of a show for his partner's benefit, posing dramatically as he aimed his weapon this way and that. Finally (only once Ani was hollering catcalls and the old woman across the hall was sufficiently scandalized), he bent down to collect the basket that had been left on the stoop.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure." He set the elaborately wrapped gift on the kitchen counter. Bright ribbons held up silky fabric, tied into a bow around the wicker handle. When they opened it they found Belgian chocolate truffles, French-roast coffee and exotic fruit preserves. Over it all lingered the faint hint of a woman's perfume.

Ani plucked out an envelope addressed to, _The Agent-Thing_. "I guess that would be you," he mused. "But who knows you're here?"

Brown didn't answer at first, though he knew exactly who had sent the basket. The envelope contained a Hallmark-brand card which he read with a mixture of amusement and apprehension. Finally, he explained, "It seems I've made a friend. The Witch wants to thank me for the help I gave her in Iceland. Apparently things worked out very well for her in the end and I'm to be credited for her good fortune."

"Well, she must clean up pretty nice. That perfume is Hermès."

"She's taken up residence in Paris and has invited us both."

"Both?"

"Yes. I can bring 'The Play-Thing,' as she puts it."

"I adore Paris. So romantic."

"I don't know. It's rather close to The Merovingian for my liking."

"So he's back?"

"Hm. Persephone text-messaged me a death threat this morning. Apparently she bought a new pair of stilettos and I'm first on her hit list."

"Then all the more reason to have powerful allies." Ani wrapped his arms around Brown's shoulders and brushed his lips across the nape of his neck. "I'd take a witch over Perse-the-nympho any day."

"Yes, but that could be because we don't who we're dealing with. She writes here that she's interested in discussing the whereabouts of an old colleague of mine."

"So?"

"I just don't have a good feeling about it, that's all."

Ani nibbled his way up to an earlobe, pushing himself up against the backside of the agent. Brown closed his eyes and bit his lower lip, letting the card fall onto the counter. There was no doubt in the transvestite's mind that they were going to Paris, and that he was going to get plenty of jewelry while they were there.

"An agent with _feelings_!" he teased. "My-oh-my! What _have_ I gotten myself into?"

* * *

0000000

* * *

The headline read: **Deity's Drunk Daughter Hotwires Hovercraft, Helped by Huge, Hairy Whore**. 

"Well, at least they got a picture," Trinity said, frowning at the photograph taken by a dock security camera. Knight was helping Rorie into the LG cargo hold, with one hand squarely on her bottom, the other dislodging a wedgie caused by his own scant underwear. "You know, I think I'll put this one on the fridge."

Somewhere between asleep and waking, Neo grabbed the newspaper and tossed it over the edge of the bed. "I'm still trying to tell myself that it was a dream," he moaned. "Five for minutes, Trin."

The One turned over to pillow his head on his wife's breasts (how wonderful to have them back!), but the contact of the side of his face with her chest sent him jutting back in pain. "Damn!" he hissed, sitting up and touching the tender bruise covering his left eye. _"_Wait until I get my hands on Knight! He's going to pay for this with blood!"

"He says he didn't do it."

"Oh he did it all right," Neo answered, throwing his feet over the edge of the bed. "I know it was him. I could tell by that guilty look on his face. Who knows _what_ else happened to us while we were gone. And don't roll your eyes at me like that. You could be pregnant with his child and not even know it. We'll have… goddamned… blonde kids… running around… naked."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't even know."

Trinity bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling as Neo left the bedroom. "He saved Rorie's life," she said when he came back with a bag of ice on his face. "Let's not forget that."

Neo grunted ambivalently. He still didn't completely understand what the boy had actually done to bring her back. All this technical nonsense about EM wave harmonics and temporal flux…

"Would you like me to explain it to you again?"

"What makes you think that I need to have it explained to me? For God's sake, I'm The One. Doesn't that mean anything anymore?"

Trinity stared at him.

"Look, what I can't figure out is what the spiders had to do with everything. And why was the Time Warp being broadcast on a reverse loop through the EM output vectors?"

"Why don't you come back to bed, dear?"

Tiredly, Neo slumped himself down next to his wife. Trinity sat up behind him and set about giving him a massage. As her expert hands worked their magic on his neck and back, he remembered a time when the business of world peace was not so complicated. He would fly around and kill things. And Trinity would also kill things. They weren't always certain what they were killing or why, but somehow, it all worked out in the end. Oh, those were the days!

"From what I can figure," she said softly, "Rorie's premonition and Pyro's mysterious litter were side-effects of the anticode anomaly, real-world analogies to the errors that the Oracle said had occurred throughout the matrix."

"Oh, that's it. More, Trin. I love it when you talk dirty to me."

She grinned and went on, caressing his lower back. "When you deflected the anticode wave back at the Witch, you caused a spatial rip just like the one that switched our minds with those of the Merovingian and Persephone. This sent the Witch into Rorie's body and Rorie into the Witch's…"

"And she got crushed under the imploding wave in the matrix. _Jesus_."

"Ripples from that wave resonated for a short time in the matrix and the real world, causing a stuttering effect which Knight noticed in a spider. That the creature could die and then twitch back to life made him realize that the anticode wave was not just a ripple of space, but of time itself. Using the Neb's EMP instrumentation, which is already configured to measure electromagnetic ripples in space-time, he measured the frequency of the remaining anticode disturbances and then collapsed them with a wave of _code_ that had the inverse frequency of that wave. He also integrated a time differential so that the data from the matrix side – that is, Rorie's, yours and my consciousnesses, were brought back from a time just before the first wave collapsed. Which is why we don't remember anything that happened after that, until the time we woke up on the Neb."

"And the music?" Neo asked. "The _Time Warp?"_

"That was the arbitrary sequence of code he used to collapse the anticode." Despite herself, Trinity grinned a computer-geek's grin. "Pretty cool, eh? He created a time warp with the _Time Warp_?"

"Oh, why don't you just marry him, Trin?"

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her face tucked in the crook of his neck. "I'm just proud of him, that's all. After all, _I'm _the one who taught him EM harmonics. And you know, it wouldn't hurt if _you_ were a little nicer to him. I think he deserves it this time."

Neo removed the ice from his eye and pulled Trinity onto his lap. He kissed her, thinking that his wife was very naïve indeed if she thought that Knight had taken that course on EM harmonics because he was interested in the lecture material. "I'll buy him a beer," he decided against her lips. "Okay?"

"Is that the going rate for Rorie's life? A _beer_?"

"Oh, come on Trin! The guy threw up on me!"

"It was an accident."

"It was Froot Loops! What kind of person has an RSI that thinks it just ate Froot Loops!?"

"You're impossible."

"He's weird, Trin. You have to admit that much. The guy is _weird_."

"He's weird because his RSI throws up Froot Loops?"

"Yeah. And because he dresses up like a girl every Halloween. Maybe he does it more often than that and we don't know it. You know… maybe he's gay."

At this Trinity laughed. "One minute he's fathering my children, and the next he's gay!" she exclaimed, getting off his lap and heading for a shower. "Make up your mind!"

"He's horny is what he is."

"And you're not." Neo frowned intensely. His hornyness was nothing like Knight's hornyness and how dare Trinity suggest otherwise. Her voice echoed from the bathroom, "You never gave Knight a chance. And you were the one who wanted a son. Remember you were hoping Rorie was a boy."

"Knight isn't my son. He isn't yours, either."

Silence. Trinity didn't answer him, and Neo sat on the bed, listening as she ran her hair under water and brushed it. He had the feeling he'd just offended her, but he was either unable or unwilling to come up with something to say that would make it right. When Trinity reappeared, leaning on the doorjamb, she was perfectly pleasant.

"About the Witch," she said. "What do you want to tell the council?"

He answered after a short pause, "I don't know. If Rorie and Knight are right about what she is… that she is human… she could not be Persephone's daughter if she's human."

"They read the anchoring sequence in her code. I'm inclined to believe them."

"Maybe it was a trick."

"Or maybe she's another _you_."

"Oh please," he chuckled darkly. "Let's hope not."

They looked at each other wearily for a moment, as if to agree that they were getting too old for this. Trinity shrugged her shoulders.

"We'll tell them it was just another exile," Neo decided at last. "There's no need to get everyone all excited. In the end, it'll probably turn out to be nothing anyway."

* * *


	24. 4006004

* * *

400**6**004

* * *

Rorie's father had told her to 'expect insomnia for a few days. I can never sleep after I've been dead.' And although it had sounded more like a dark joke than anything else, she soon found that he was not wrong. The Nebuchadnezzar had arrived with the LG lagging behind, as if guilty of its transgression, at a quarter past two. At four forty-five, Rorie was still staring up at the mud colored ceiling of her bedroom, having turned on the light long ago because she also found that she could not stand the dark. In the dark, poised in the position of sleep, she felt as if she could lose herself, lose her mind again, for what earthly force was keeping it in place after all, if it could be gone so easily? Indeed, the notion that her blessed consciousness could dissolve from her body and be transposed into a foreign vessel in a foreign world, and then just as miraculously return to its former state without a shred of physical evidence to mark the transformation was incompatible with her scientific sensibilities. And what of the parasite who had, as a weed invades the well-sewn earth of a garden, rooted herself into her body – this witch, this interloper? Rorie was disgusted by it. How dare she! How _dare_ she! It had to be the rudest thing imaginable.

Up until this, her seventeenth year, Rorie had never faced an enemy who had offended her so intimately. Never before in her sheltered life had she known the tonic of being so terribly victimized or the thrill of hating another person so unambiguously. Even the word _hate_ was almost new vocabulary. Hate. She _hated_ her. It was so arresting, such new a thought, she had to say it aloud, a soft hiss in the quiet of her bedroom. And as the unfamiliar phrase left her lips in a voice she barely recognized as her own, Rorie was more alienated from herself than she ever could have been by the use of magic.

She decided to take a walk. This time of day was still Zionist twilight, when Rorie liked to suppose that walking along the avenues was like traveling through outer-space, with hundreds of thousands of stars twinkling above and below, stretching out forever and offering limitless mystery, limitless opportunity, limitless potential. This to her was the beautiful antithesis of an ugly concrete dome guarded by men with guns against machines which had much bigger guns. The sky was her unattainable freedom. These days, her mother was the only human alive who had ever seen it.

But Rorie did not think about these things as she strolled through the streets this morning. No absentminded fantasies about the rising sun or the rings of Saturn or, or the imagined scent of freshly-cut grass. It was gone, like a passion with wings that had fluttered inside her belly but then flown away, or like a childhood toy that she didn't play with anymore. And the more Rorie searched around her for the intrigue, the more ordinary everything looked.

She was sad for this, and consoled herself by deciding that it was a sign of maturity to be embraced rather than a death to be mourned. The world is not infinite. Neither is life. There is a concrete ceiling above all of us, a limit beyond which there are only dreams and daemons, and so freedom, if that word still retains any meaning at all, is bound within the narrow limits of our circumstances. To grow up, she supposed, meant leaning one's scale and finding one's place in it. Rorie calculated that she had ninety-one avenues bridging seven hundred and nine levels, serviced by twenty-five elevators on which to ride and connecting one hundred thirty thousand nine hundred and ten red doors at which to knock. Of the incalculable paths she could take and the myriad people she could encounter she would only choose one, and even this did not feel like a choice to her, because she could not conceive of her arriving anywhere else under the circumstances.

She hadn't called first but she imagined he was awake, too. She fantasized that there was no need for her to call because he was sitting up, knowing her so well that he could predict her visit and be ready to comfort her (had his eyes not said before they parted, that they should meet later, as soon as possible, to talk in private?). And even as Rorie conceded that it was far-fetched at best, shamefully egocentric and needy, she hoped it was true. Something seemed to be riding on it, on his being up and thinking of her, worried about her, ready for her, though she wasn't sure what. Was it a test? That she was testing him again after he saved her life, probably more than once, and then lifted her from the hull of the Neb, so effortlessly into his arms as if she weighed nothing, and never left her side until she was safely at home and her father asked him to leave, was unconscionable. Exhaustion was making her emotional and silly. Before she'd left for her walk, Pyro had warned her not to go to him. But if you absolutely must, the spider had said, do not let him see the extent of your feelings. Don't make a fool of yourself. Don't play the part of one of his bimbos, falling into his arms.

Heeding the advice, Rorie knocked in the most independent, intelligent manner she could. Rapid, sure knocks, loud but not desperate, purposeful but not demanding. When he didn't answer, she waited a long time before ringing the bell. The wait told her that he was asleep and this felt like some kind of humiliation. Of _course_ he was asleep! He was disheveled in boxers and a T shirt when he opened the door, bleary-eyed and midway through suppressing a yawn. In his sleepiness, Knight could not have known his mistake as he said, "What are you doing here?"

The phrasing of his question, the slight edge in his voice, more a result of confusion than annoyance, and the collapse of her fantasy were enough to make Rorie wish she'd never come at all. She was amazed as her vision blurred with tears, mortified that she could not control this sudden rise of emotion, unable to wipe her eyes in time to save her dignity. She sensed his movement forward to comfort her but now she didn't want him and turned away to face the railing, and when he followed she dodged him again. "No!" she ordered, showing him her back, stooping to frantically dry her face on her sleeve. "No, I'm okay."

Knight stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. He approached her slowly this time, until his front met her back, and brought his arms around her waist. She'd already stopped crying and when she straightened, his chin sat as it habitually did when they embraced, on the crown of her head. For a minute they were still and quiet, the tempos of their breathing running in tandem as they looked out at the glittering core of the city. It was dark but a few merchants were out setting up their shops at the open market on the opposite arc, and the soporific scent of freshly made flatbread warmed the air. It was another full minute or so later, after Rorie had pressed back against him and took his hands in hers, entwining their fingers into a maze of ivory and gold sticks, when he reluctantly broke the silence by murmuring to her, "We'll have that for breakfast."

"You're not tired?"

"No."

"I woke you up."

"Doesn't matter."

Knight would have been embarrassed to admit that he'd fallen asleep on his couch, waiting for her to come by (but had they not had an understanding – he thought he had seen it in her face – that she would come after her parents were asleep?). He'd even changed the sheets on his bed and left it made, imagining that after they talked, she'd eventually get tired and want to spend the night. She'd sleep in late, and he'd wake her up with coffee and breakfast, and then maybe they'd talk some more about all that had happened. Knight had imagined all this, and with some guilt he'd even looked forward to it, reveling in his new role as undisputed hero. How strong and triumphant he'd felt, lifting Rorie into his arms the way he had (how tiny she was!), and later, instructing Neo not to overwhelm her with questions, that she needed space and some time to recover first. All his instincts had seemed measured and wise at the time, none of his attentions to her overdone or intrusive, and all his self-congratulations completely justified. But when she hadn't come when he'd expected her to, and for the two hours he'd managed to keep himself awake, it all began to look a little presumptuous. More than that, he felt stupid, sitting there alone and exhausted, waiting for her to come for no other reason than she'd met his eyes for a moment before they parted. And if Rorie knew that this was what he had done, he was sure she'd think that he was very pathetic indeed, and by his own judgment she would be right. Pathetically, he'd kept waiting, calling himself pathetic, until he'd dozed off with his head in a pathetic position that would be felt in his neck and back for days to come.

Now that she was here, three hours late by his estimation, he wasn't sure what to think, and though he knew he was thrilled (his heart had leapt pathetically), he decided not to show it too much. It didn't seem right, Knight thought, to think the thoughts that were begging to be thought, with Rorie in such an unhappy state. Or to feel the things that were screaming to be felt. He struggled not to accept it, but there was a place between his thigh and his groin, where the sweet curve of her buttocks was gently pressing, demanding attention. It could not be! Knight knew well enough from experience that if he did not think about it, then he would not react, and thus be safe from humiliation. (And what humiliation! He could imagine Rorie spinning around and slapping him, Hollywood-style, with the open palm of her hand). And so he turned his attention to the glittering core of the city - to the twinkling lights that Rorie thought looked like stars, and which the two of them had spent much time gazing at and grouping into imaginary constellations. His goal was to think only of the mundane and the disgusting, to find the single image that was sure to kill every sexual impulse in his body.

"There," he said, pointing to a cluster of ten avenue lamps and three yellow porch lights. "I found Morpheus' Pants."

The laughter he was hoping for did not come. In fact, she cringed and stepped away, a brisk separation that did not please him at all. She would not look into his eyes, she would not even speak, and for a moment he half-expected her to turn around and run away. "I wish you'd stop joking about everything," she said finally, looking at somewhere between his feet and his knees. "I wish you'd be serious."

"I was just--"

"Not everything is a joke. Why can't you understand that?" Her eyes flickered up for only an instant, enough to show him a flash of genuine reproach. "I wish we could talk seriously for once. You know, I didn't come here so you could--"

"Well, why _did_ you come here?" he interrupted, unable to hide annoyance that somehow, he had arrived in the wrong, after all that he'd done. After all that he felt for her, she was still unsatisfied. "What do you _want_ from me?"

"Want? All I _want_ is a real conversation, Knight. I just… I never know what you're really thinking if all the time you're making jokes. I feel like I don't even know you."

To Knight, this was the ultimate insult. "I can't believe you're saying this. To me? Do you realize that I fell asleep on my couch? Do you realize that--"

"Oh, I am _so_ sorry I woke you up, Knight!" she exclaimed. "_Excuse_ me for coming unannounced."

"For god's sake! I don't care that you woke me up. I didn't even sleep."

"Oh? Was it the girl from the Halloween party?"

They stared at one another, and if Knight weren't so furious at the accusation he would have derived pleasure from the suggestion of jealousy. He wanted to turn around and slam the door in her face. He wanted to climb into his freshly-made bed, throw the comforter asunder, cover his head with the pillow and never he heard from again. "I wish," he said to her meanly. "I _wish_ that is how I'd spent the night. It would have been a whole lot more fun than this. What the hell _is_ this? Why are we even fighting?"

"Nothing. It's _nothing_, Knight." As if by saying it, she could make it so. "I don't know why I expected you to understand. I don't even know why I'm here. I'm going home."

The hell she was going home. Knight would have sooner thrown her off the catwalk than let her leave him like this. She was insane. He was insane too, but he didn't care. He had never been so angry with her – creating a fight out of nothing! Tainting his day of heroism with such unpleasantness! "What's the matter with you?" he demanded through clenched teeth. "What's all this about?"

But she had turned her back to him and she was marching towards the elevators. He followed her and tried to catch her arm but she snatched it away. Rorie was wearing a simple wrap-around dress that fastened like a robe around her waist, with waves of weightless fabric floating behind her as she walked. In his second attempt to stop her, Knight snatched at one of the billowing trains of the gown and held hard. Rorie nearly tripped as she spun around and pulled back, gripping the delicate material in a tug-of-war.

"Let go!" she snapped. "Let go of me right now!"

"No. Not until we sort this out."

"You'll rip it."

"You're the one who's ripping it. I'm not even pulling."

For a moment he was sure he'd won. Rorie released the train of her dress and looked around at the dark, deserted catwalk and adjoining avenues. "Fine," she said. "If that's the way you want it."

In a swift, smooth pull, she released the knot at her waist which was holding her dress together. Knight's jaw dropped as layers of navy blue and lavender fabric floated to the ground and pooled around her ankles. He was still holding part of it in his hand. Victoriously, Rorie stood with her shoulders back and her hands on her hips, wearing nothing but her bra, panties and shoes.

"Now, I'll either go home like this and be the mercy of the perverts and the criminals, or you will hand me back my dress so I can be on my way."

Without a word, Knight handed her the dress.

In less time than it took her to take it off, Rorie had it back on and was fleeing the scene. Before Knight could even form a coherent thought or mutter a complete sentence, the elevator had arrived and she was gone.

* * *


	25. EPILOGUE

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

not many months later…

* * *

The Witch was dressed from head to toe in shearling fur, a tiny black speckle on a white page. Then an inky smudge, as she threw the pelt over her shoulder, squinting out into the blizzard impassively. Her skin was as white as the snow, her features as chiseled as the sheer ice below her boots. And the wind howled through her long strands of raven hair as she marched on.

This was the peak of Siberian Exile, where screams disappeared into the frigid air, forgotten in an instant, for not a single hill or cliff existed to create an echo. It was flat and unforgiving, and hers were the only footprints for miles. And her human heart was the only tempo of life this place had ever heard.

The ancient fortress was invisible from afar, an optical illusion made of ice so polished, it reflected the earth and sky in perfect proportion. Her face stared back stonily as she approached it, red lipstick and naturally blue eyes baptizing the mirror with three drops of searing color. And a gloved hand reached out and pressed hard to the boundary, black leather around slender fingers meeting solid, impregnable energy.

She scowled and bit her lip. Then used her teeth to remove the glove, revealing an ivory hand with impeccably manicured nails, as crimson as the blood which coursed through her heart. Carefully, she breathed onto the glacial surface, and condensation fogged her image, which she wiped clean with her bare hand. It was freezing, but she did not break contact, taking a deep breath, suppressing a shiver, and waiting.

As if by melting, the façade beneath her palm began to liquefy into a silvery pool, oozing and dripping like molten candle wax. It ran over her fingers and wrist, and trickled along her arm, soaking her wool sweater. And then it was alive, not merely flowing, but engulfing her dainty figure, self-perpetuating and unstoppable.

"Que c'est froid!" The Witch gasped in a fine, Parisian accent. She shuddered, shut her eyes, and bit down hard, allowing the steadily thickening fluid to take her entirely, surging over her body and down her throat. She screamed, because it was painful, but she didn't fight it. This was why she came here, to the edge of the world. To make a deal with the devil himself.

She opened her eyes to the unremarkable simulation of a maximum security detention facility. The code was uninspired and bare, dribbling down in strong, unembellished columns, not unlike the bars of a prison cell. The programming was intended to be impenetrable and impossible to bend, though the Programmers never counted on their design being tested. This was where programs went to be forgotten. This place was for exiles whose crimes were too severe to merit deletion, but rather an eternity of torture and solitude. Currently, only one daemon festered here, and in the Matrix, his name was so cursed that few people even dared to utter it aloud.

"My, it's blustery out there, isn't it?" she said casually to the porter, removing her hat and gloves. "Thank goodness I remembered my muff."

The heavily armed guard hadn't seen a single visitor in six hundred years. He stood mechanically and raised his hand to a plastic earpiece, signaling for three other programs to join him behind the bullet proof glass. These were all agents.

"It's her," one observed.

"The anomaly."

"Do we proceed?"

"Yes."

"She is still…"

"Only human."

The lady quirked an eyebrow and frowned. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," she said sweetly. "I'm here to see Mr. Smith. You see, I've baked him a cake to brighten his day, and would very much like to deliver it personally. Do you know, is he seeing visitors at present?"

* * *

0000000

* * *

Shreds of their code still hung from her fingernails as she leisurely walked though the corridors, the clickity-clack of her heeled boots like a metronome for the melodic screaming which seemed to resound from the walls. The doors were hospital green, all identical and unmarked, an arrangement which conformed to the ideal Machine aesthetic, and it disgusted her to realize that she felt comfortable here. Order. Unity. Sterile, mathematical precision. These things were still her religion; they matched her soul's resonant frequency perfectly. And so it didn't take long to find him. She knew inherently where he would be.

Bound in an orange straitjacket and muzzled like an animal, Smith sat strapped to a chair in the centre of his empty cell. She approached slowly, as one would a rabid, caged beast, and looked down on him with a mixture of pity and contempt. He stared back blankly, enigmatically. Almost as if he'd known she was coming.

The legend of Mr. Smith and the Blind Messiah was common folklore where she came from. Twenty years ago, an agent had mutated into a virus, taken over the System, and would have destroyed all of 01 had The Source not forged an alliance with the Sixth Human Anomaly, whose name was Neo. If he destroyed the virus, Zion would also live on. Both human and program perished in the battle that ensued, but in his divine mercy, The Source spared Neo's life, and as a gift to him, also brought back his much beloved Trinity. Together they were entrusted with maintaining the peace of the human world.

And Smith, the bringer of plague and embodiment of all that was evil, was judged very harshly. He did not die, and would not be deleted. Rather, The Source rebooted his battered program into the Matrix he hated so well, condemning Smith to spend eternity in the worst torment he could imagine. The poor, pathetic creature was so marred in shame, not even his own god would take him back.

The Witch circled the bound program several times, taking her time to read his code in its entirety. She'd been worried that he would be too badly degraded to be of use, and so was pleased to discover that the damage was not irreparable, and he was still very powerful indeed. It had been said that he drew his energy directly from hell, but she didn't believe in these foolish children's stories. He was an anomaly, a very unique systemic mistake, which self-perpetuated and destroyed organics and machines indiscriminately, nothing more. That is to say, he was perfect.

"Hello, Mr. Smith," she whispered in a voice as smooth and dark as any program's, subtly brushing her fingers across his shoulder, up to his ear. "I am a very busy woman these days, so I will be direct. I went to a great deal of trouble to find you, and traveled a great distance to arrive at this dreadful place. Now I can see that you are scarcely worth my trouble. But I have run out of time, so you will have to do. I require your cooperation on a matter of the utmost importance, and in return you will have your freedom."

She narrowed her eyes and wrapped her mind around the straps which fastened his leather mask and gag. Without her having to lift a finger, the muzzle complied with her will, steel buckles snapping like twigs and falling to the floor. The room shook.

"Now speak," she commanded. "Will you comply?"

He glared at her in muted defiance, then observed impassively, "The code dances for you, human. That's not the standard variety of parlor trick around here. What could one so talented want with me… the scourge of this system?"

"I'm surprised you haven't figured that out by now. I want what you wanted. I want everything."

"You want Neo."

She stared at him evenly with clear blue eyes, then her lip curled into a satisfied smile. He was the perfect slave.

"Allow me to introduce myself properly," she said, breaking the remainder of his shackles and chains without even blinking. She pulled Smith from his chair and eased him into a standing position, his body gently but firmly puppeteered by an unrelenting energy.

She held her hand out to him. "You may call me, Synergy."

* * *


	26. AN, RELOADED

_Author's note:_

_You may all notice that this epilogue was equivalent to the prologue of the Undiscovered Country. I'm so sorry if this disappoints you and you were expecting a novel ending. This was my way of tying the two fictions together.  
_

_To make it up to you, I have a 4-part extension fiction, called SAHS-BEP (Sydney Andrews' Halloween Special Bonus Expansion Pack). It picks up exactly where we left off with Rorie and Knight. I hope you enjoy it – I will post all 4 chapters at once, together, tonight.  
_

_ I'd like to take this chance to thank Zion Angel, RainAwhile, Silver Ashes (ZA, RA, and SA?), and Rhiannon Reeves for reviewing. And especially Zinck, who didn't review but I forgive him because he actually read all of this while I was writing it and pointed out all the typos ;)_

_Cheers, _

_-Syd._


End file.
